


Thantophobia - The Fear of Losing Someone You Love

by Kiddik



Category: Buzzfeed - Fandom, Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), shyan - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Mob, Based On Buzzfeed Unsolved, Law firm of Night Night and Legs, M/M, Slow Burn, The AU no one asked for, based off the one time shane said "the law firm of night night and legs", bfu, buzzfeed unsolved - Freeform, buzzfeed unsolved au, lawyer AU, like a big ole slow burn, mob!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-06-24 13:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15631335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiddik/pseuds/Kiddik
Summary: Shane Madej and Ryan Bergara have been partners at their law firm for five years. They specialize in criminal defense and, thanks to their 98% success rate, the mob uses them often. But when they get stuck with an unbeatable case, when they have no way to win, they seek the help of their less than trustworthy 'friends.'Will Shane and Ryan be able to keep their hands clean? Will they be able to escape the tricks and trades of the mob? Or should they be more worried about the cops?





	1. Funny how things just disappear

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in a while, so I hope you all enjoy it!  
> I'll try to update at least every week, but because I'll be starting college classes soon it might get a bit hectic here and there!
> 
> My Tumblr handle is @buzzzfeeedunsolved
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~ Kiki

_At sundown, he wasn’t so gaunt or blood-stained that they couldn’t pretend it was all a daydream; a strange and overwhelmingly vivid shared delusion._

_They could nearly pretend that labored breaths hadn’t raggedly escaped chapped lips. They could nearly pretend that the smell, that familiar iron, the scent of corroded pennies and bar fights, was all overworked hallucinations. Nearly._

_Could they wash the memories down the drain with the grime they were frantically scrubbing off? No… If the clots had a hard enough time going down, their violent memories would never squeeze into the steal pipes._

_If only it was still sundown, then they could pretend it was all a daydream._

 

~*~

 

“Your Honor, I would like to call for a ten-minute recess in order to retrieve the knife, marked as people's exhibit number eight, to bring before the jury as irrefutable evidence that Mr. Brent Bennett is guilty of second-degree murder.” The prosecutor, Aria Inthavong, smirked.

“Objection, inflammatory!” 

“Sustained.” The judge decided,

“My apologies, Your Honor, I would like to call for a ten-minute recess to retrieve exhibit number eight, to bring before the jury.”

“Permission granted, ten-minute recess,” The judge let his gavel fall ceremoniously, and soft muffled whispers filled the room.

Brent sighed, holding his head in his hands, “It doesn’t sound good, so far.”

“Bennett, we’re going to make this work! Bergara and I have been defending guys like you for years with a 98% success rate. That isn’t changing today.” 

The phrase “guys like you” seemed harmless. Innocent to those passing by. “Guys like you” criminals, thugs, surely? No. “Guys like you” mobsters, mafia members, those who were in deep, deep shit. The kinds of guys people write three-hour trilogies about. The kinds of guys people hope and pray their children never become. The kinds of guys who manipulate, intimidate, rob, steal, and torture to ensure things go their way. The kinds of guys that can only escape lifelong imprisonment with the help of silver-tongued DAs who have a flair for the theatrics and a disregard for ethicality.

The defense attorney checked his watch, “Great timing, I’m going to step out to take this call. Sit tight.”

“Madej,”

The lawyer paused, throwing a glance over his shoulder, “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Madej nodded curtly and lifted the bar to leave the litigation area. He slid his phone from his pocket, and, as if a genetic instinct, he found himself typing out his associate’s number.

He waited. It rang once, twice, three times… “Shit,” Shane muttered softly to himself. 

The loud clacking of dress shoes echoing through the hall mixed with indiscernible conversation did nothing to soothe Shane’s cluttered mind. 

He checked his watch again. Four minutes until the recess would end. “Come on, Ryan.” He tried again, and still, he was greeted with the familiar voicemail, “Hello, this is defense attorney Ryan Bergara, I am unable to–”

Shane rolled his eyes and stuffed his hands into his pockets. If this wasn’t done– _Shit_. If this wasn’t done, they’d be screwed. 

One minute until court would be back in session. Shane ran a hand through his hair, adjusting his clear-framed glasses that had, through the course of everything, slipped to the bridge of his nose. He ran a hand down the front of his blazer and, as confidently as he could feign, walked back to the accused’s table.

Brent eyed him, wearily, he could see the unusual paleness of Shane’s face, “Fuck.” He muttered to himself.

Shane’s tongue suddenly felt too big for his mouth as if every gulp of air or swallow of saliva in order to moisten his parched palette was a death wish. A close call to choking on himself. He shakily grasped the water glass before him and chugged as much as possible. 

Oh, Jesus Christ, they were closing the doors.

“Excuse me.” The soft echo of a voice graced his ears. A familiar voice. 

Shane straightened his posture and shot a glance back to the doors.

It was Ryan. Oh, thank fuck!

Ryan smiled, it was subtle, delicate, almost, but only out of propriety.

Shane exhaled thankfully and flaunted a nonchalant look towards the judge. 

His dark eyes skimmed the room, brows furrowed in confusion. His hand rested calmly on the gavel.

“Madej, have you seen Attorney Inthavong?”

“No, Your Honor. I’m sure he’ll be back promptly–”

The courtroom doors were thrown open to reveal a disheveled Aria Inthavong.

“Ah, speak of the devil.” Shane smirked.

Inthavong rubbed his neck anxiously–a tell of his that Shane and Ryan had always thought was far too apparent for a lawyer–and hastily entered the litigation pen.

“Permission to approach the bench, Your Honor?”

“Granted.”

Inthavong shot another glance around the room before stepping nearer.

Shane offered Ryan a glance, the shorter man was seated in the front row of the gallery. An expression that would seem neutral to anyone other than Shane, rested contently across his face.

“Return to your table, Inthavong.” The judge inhaled deeply, and let the gavel fall heavily, decisively, “Court is back in session. Prosecution if you would please inform the jury of what you just told me.”

Inthavong stood, hesitantly, “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, it is with great displeasur–”

“If you would be so kind as to cut the dramatics.”

“Uh, of course, Your Honor.” Inthavong wrung his hands anxiously–another tell that Shane found too apparent; however, Ryan countered that even in his most confident cases, he too would often clutch his own hands in order to refrain from mindless fidgeting. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number eight, the knife called into question and all substantial evidence linking it to the second-degree murder of Lawrence Peters has gone missing.”

Hushed whispers fell upon the room like cicada buzzes in summer.

Brent flashed a stunned look at Shane, who moved his hand to hide the smirk breaking out.

“Does the prosecution have any other conclusive evidence?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Honor.”

“Then I am going to have to declare this a mistrial. The jury is thanked and excused. Court is adjourned.”

“Oh my god!” Brent exclaimed. “Thank you both so much!”

Ryan stood approaching the gate and extending his hand, “It was a pleasure really.”

Brent gratefully shook both men’s hands, “Really, I can’t thank you enough.”

Shane shrugged, “No need to thank us, we’re only doing our jobs.” Shane propped open the bar for himself, “I’d say ‘stay out of trouble’ but I find that unlikely, and we like getting paid.”

Ryan chuckled, the pair turning away from their former client. “Good work, Shane.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you,”

Ryan shrugged bashfully.

“No, really. I mean it.” Shane nudged Ryan’s arm playfully as the pair stepped outside.

The light was so warm, so inviting after a successful trial. Shane paused on the steps, taking a deep breath of the crisp autumn air.

“So, where are we goin' to celebrate? I was thinking something nice!” Ryan grinned, “We deserve it after that shit show!”

Shane chuckled, “There’s a great–”

“Madej! Bergara!” 

The pair froze, turning their attention to the black, sleek car that had rolled to the courthouse’s front steps. The windows were tinted, and the only thing that the pair could make out was the silhouette of the man in the passenger’s seat, he held a thick cigar in his meaty fingers. Smoke billowed from the open window. His voice was gruff, and when he pulled the cigar back for another drag the smallest glimpse of a Rolex watch could be spotted from beneath his sleeve.

They didn’t move, the tail’s of their coats rustling in the wind.

“Uh,” Ryan cleared his throat, “Yes?”

“Get in.” The man ordered.

“You know… In this line of work climbing into cars with shady strangers isn’t really our proclivity.” Shane muttered dryly.

Ryan bit his tongue in a feeble attempt to stop himself from yelling at his friend’s utter stupidity. Instead, optioning for a subtle, yet harsh elbowing.

The man raised his left hand, and if it weren’t for all the smoke, the sight of a sleek black 9mm lugger would be clear as day. “I’m not asking.” The man spit, his finger on the trigger.

“Fuck.” Ryan swallowed.

“Get in the car, boys.”

And, so, even though every instinct, every logical, rational train of though begged for them to do anything else, the pair stepped into the car.


	2. Till Death Do Us Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This wasn’t the deal,” Shane chimed in. “We’ve been acquitting you assholes for years, and this is how you repay us? You said you’d steal the evidence, and that was that!”
> 
> “I think you over estimated your worth to us. We’ve been providing you with business, that’s repayment enough.”

* * *

_It was strong, the bleach stung eyes and choked lungs._

_Their hands were rubbed raw from scrubbing any traces of DNA from their skin._

_The sound of limp limbs on linoleum still rang in their ears._

_And even now, at the darkest hour, in the dead silence of night, their frantic hearts and heavy breaths reminded them... there is no escape._

 

~*~

 

“This is bullshit!” Ryan exclaimed, arms crossed over his chest, much like a little toddler trying to prove their displeasure.

“This wasn’t the deal,” Shane chimed in. “We’ve been acquitting you assholes for years, and this is how you repay us? You said you’d steal the evidence, and that was that!”

“I think you over estimated your worth to us. We’ve been providing you with business, that’s repayment enough.”

The two men sat, uncomfortably, in luxurious chairs that were so nice you couldn’t help but obsess over the possibilities of damaging them.

They were just far enough from one another to feel individually isolated, and the angle at which their chairs were propped up left them dwarfed in comparison to the large mahogany desk before them, which was probably by design.

Behind the desk, sat their–the mob’s–negotiator. He held an air of nonchalance—no, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t nonchalance, Ryan decided. Shane held an air of nonchalance, this was apathy. Utter, unwavering apathy.

The man’s eyelids hung lazily as if always a blink away from sleep, yet his voice—monotonous and still, somehow, energized—assured those listening of his steadfast alertness and cunning.

He couldn’t be much older than the pair, but the elegance of his suit and prestige of the whiskey in his hand aged him.

Not necessarily in the sense of sophistication, although that was definitely present, but more so in the childhood sense; that feeling when someone is more prepared or put together, when someone radiates effortless untouchable charisma, when no matter how you attempt to ready yourself, in comparison you’re still just a child wishing to grow up.

That’s how Ryan felt, he was just a child being scolded by one of his own.

“Boys,”

Ryan gritted his teeth.

“I know working off debts is never fun, but we’re not asking much of you.” 

“Working off debts?! This is ludicrous!” Ryan turned to Shane, awaiting his overwhelming support, but instead he was met with a blank face.

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

“What?! Shane, no!”

Shane ran a hand through his hair, disheveling his once neatly gelled locks as he turned to face his friend, “What other choice do we have? We knew the second we took that case we were screwed. We knew this was our only option. We made this bed now we gotta sleep in it.”

“Bullshit. We didn’t make this bed! We were thrown into it and told that because we helped the movers place it in the room it must be ours!” Ryan threw his hands up, wildly, movements stiff and jarring.

“Mr. Bergara,” the man leaned in, a strand of his immaculate sandy hair slipping onto his forehead, “I understand that you may have your hesitations, but... my pacifism is only out of civility... If you fail to comply with our rightfully indebted requests, I will be,” he leaned in, icy eyes unmoving as he cracked his large knuckles. “Less than cordial.”

Ryan couldn’t breathe, his throat had been seized by heavy hands. Claws dug into his lungs and stole the very air from within. His knuckles whitened as he tried to steady himself on the arms of his seat.

“... So, what was it you had in mind?” Shane mumbled.

Their negotiator—Ryan needed a name for him, the higher ups in the mob were strictly faceless, or at the very least nameless figures, so, he needed something to refer to him as in order to satiate his internal monologue.... 

Their negotiator, Jackass, smirked, “We’ve been dealing with some trouble recently. This young man,” He pushed a manila folder towards the pair, “Keith Habersberger, recently... parted with our organization, and we need to make sure he stays quiet.”

“You want us to...” The words died in Shane’s throat, his mouth parted in a small, overwhelmed ‘o.’

“Kill him?” Jackass bit back a smile, “Not this time, boys.”

The line sent chills down Ryan’s spine.

“Just give him a scare, break some bones if you have to. I don’t care. He just needs to,” he brought his fingers to his lips and mimed zipping them shut. “Capisce?” 

Shane glanced at Ryan, waiting on his approval.

Really what could Ryan say? No? Jackass had made it pretty clear “no” wasn’t an option. Not if they wanted to escape this unscathed.

He and Shane had devoted their lives’ work to getting these guys, long time thugs and first offenders alike, off their charges. They had been almost criminally good—almost.

But now, now they were going to be actually, literally, genuinely criminally good. Good because they met their goal, not because they did their job, or at least... not really. 

It didn’t matter if it started out because they wanted to keep the innocent from wrongful imprisonment. It didn’t matter if it was their shared dream in college. It didn’t mater if they had been so by the book this whole time.

 The mobsters had won, they would take their heads and figuratively mount them on the walls. They would pin them under their thumbs.

Ryan wanted to scream. He wanted to attack this calm, collected crime lord. 

Shane had always been Ryan’s voice of reason, the hand pulling him back from a bar fight. So, if this was what Shane thought was best, then—no matter how badly his stomach was caving in on itself—that’s what they’d do. 

“Got it.”

 Jackass leaned back, the corners of his lips turning up, “Good.”

 Shane’s eyes fell from Ryan—as if disappointed? Surprised?—before settling back to their instructor.

“All the details—photos of your target, address, etc—are in the folder. Pull the blinds in your office up halfway when you’ve done the job.” 

Shane grimaced at the phrase “done the job,” but nodded in submission.

Jackass picked up the pack of cigarettes on his desk and lit one up. “If you don’t have any questions, Adam and Garett, you might remember them as the pair who picked you up, are parked out front. They’ll bring you back to the courthouse.” 

Ryan stood up swiftly, thankful to be free from the hell that was this room, but Shane stayed put. His legs planted firmly into the rough red carpet.

 “Now, now, Shane. You were doing so well. Don’t tell me you’ve lost your manners.” Jackass grinned—the first time he seemed genuinely emotional about anything, in Ryan’s opinion.

 Ryan walked to Shane’s side, resting a hand on his shoulder.

 “Is this it? Our only task?” Shane asked, sternly, almost daring their commander to say something wrong.

The blonde man leant forward, resting his head cutely on the back of his hands. Cig between his fingers, smoke clinging to his figure. “If this goes well... yes.”

 Shane nodded, lips pursed. He shot Ryan a stoney glance, eyes indecipherable as he stood up.

 “Pleasure doing business with you, boys.”

 “Afraid I can’t say the same,” Ryan spit, hand still resting on Shane’s arm.

 Jackass’ chuckles escorted the men out of the room, leaving chills up their spines.

 The pair paused before the main exit, relishing in the silence of the slim hallway. The room was dim, walls lined with what looked like stock image artwork. The green tattered carpet and flickering overhead light were the only indicators of how little money was put into this establishment, but, really, what need did the mob have in “decking out” their bargaining office.

 “What the fuck?” Shane muttered, breathlessly.

 “What?” Ryan asked, trying to study his friend’s face.

 Shane shook his head, running a hand over his mouth, “Nothing, nothing.” The words were bitter, almost accusatory.

 “No. What?”

 Shane shrugged, taking a few steps away from Ryan.

 “Shane! What? What did you want me to do?”

 “Nothing!” Shane spun back to face Ryan, raking his hand through his hair yet again, “Something! I don’t know!”

Ryan scoffed, “We’re dealing with the mob now, Shane.” 

“I know–”

“The mob, the mafia, the crime syndicate, etc, etc.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“This isn’t a prosecutor trying to out smart us. We don’t have rules and regulations for this. We can’t flash a smile and charm the jury this time.”

“I…”

“Shane, we have to be in this together.” Ryan stepped closer.

“I know…”

“We won’t make it otherwise–”

“I know…” Shane’s voice cracked, eyes finding themselves glued to the floor, “I’m sorry… I’m scared, Ryan.” His cheeks and neck flushed with embarrassment.

Ryan choked on his own defeat, a pained sigh squeezing through his lips. He gently placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and Shane collapsed in onto him, resting his head on Ryan’s shoulder. He rarely saw his friend so distraught, and all he wanted was the unapologetically sarcastic humor that he lamented about to return.

“I’m sorry…”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We’ve got this. We’ve got this… We have each other. Always.” 

Shane nodded his head, weakly. Hot, overwhelmed tears stung the back of his eyes, but he refused to crack.

Ryan was right, they both knew it, he always was about these things. Shane was the logic, the calm in the storm. He was the emotionless reason, whereas Ryan understood psychology. He understood what drove people. He understood head and heart, Shane envied that about him, but it was one of the many things that made them such a great team.

It didn’t matter if they were side-by-side at the accused’s table facing some pretentious prosecutor, or if they were being blackmailed into intimidating some unfortunate soul. They would have each other’s backs. They would be one another’s sword and shield.

 “Till death do us part.”

 Shane chuckled, hoarsely. Nudging Ryan’s shoulder as he stood up right.

 “You make us sound like an old married couple.” Shane smirked.

Ryan let out a wheezy giggle, a laugh too genuinely happy for the moment they were in, but that’s how Shane always made him feel.

Genuinely, uncontrollably happy, through everything. 

Shane wiped his nose with the back of his hand, hiding the last of his sniffles, “Till death do we part, baby!”


	3. Something To Fight For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh my god…” Ryan muttered, “We-We…”
> 
> Shane snapped into a sitting position, wide-eyed and paler than Ryan had ever seen him before, “Don’t! Don’t say it!”

_Droplets of blood clung to every fissure of the garbage bag. The smell of death heavy in the air._

_Perhaps it was all in their heads, but they could’ve sworn the sound… that steady, rhythmic thwack, still rang out. It played, almost melodically, in their ears._

_It made them feel sick… and yet… they almost craved to hear it once more._

~*~

 

Shane drummed his fingers against the dashboard of Ryan’s car. He kept his eyes fixed on the house across the street from them as if just taking in the scenery could somehow magically allow them to escape this ordeal.

Ryan held the steering wheel loosely, watching Shane, “Ready?”

The taller man laughed, humorlessly. How was someone supposed to be ready for something like this? How did any sane person not spill their guts at the mere thought?

“Stupid question, I know.”

Shane shook his head, it wasn’t Ryan’s fault they were here–even if he had been the one to actively assist the mob in stealing the evidence, but Shane suggested it. Ryan didn’t deserve the side effects of Shane’s bitter self-loathing. “No, no… I’m ready.”

The shorter man nodded, pulling the ski mask over his face and stepping out of the car.

Shane took one last glance around the car before joining his friend. 

They both wore black from head-to-toe; jeans, sweatshirts, combat boots, gloves, and masks–Ryan wearing the ski mask and Shane wearing a black bandana and beanie.

Ryan gripped a baseball bat, nervously switching back and forth between his hands.

“Give that to me,” Shane ordered, holding an expectant hand out, “You’ve got enough brute force on your own… and you don’t need anything else to worry about.”

Ryan nodded, wordlessly thanking his friend. 

It was now or never, they both knew it.

Silently Shane took the lead, walking towards the back of the house.

The lights a warm, dim orange, soaked into the lawn, casting a comfortable, homey atmosphere.

Shane glanced back at Ryan searching for a sympathetic look, a silent apology to the poor man they’d be attacking, but found his partner’s gaze was preoccupied with the complexities of different escape routes–or something of the like, Shane was sure. 

They had roughed out a couple plans for attack, but now that they were here, hands shaky and hearts racing, all preparation seemed foggy.

“How do we…” Ryan’s whispers fluttered off in the wind, hands gesturing to the back door of the cute white house.

The back door was a traditional two paneled piece, a cute window–centered to allow the owner an easy view of their yard–was shielded with a creamy curtain.

Shane examined the back windows; they were symmetrically set on either side of the door and spruced up with hanging flower boxes–marigolds if Shane’s memory was serving him right.

The taller man held up his hand, signaling for Ryan to wait. 

The distant sound of a TV could be heard around the corner, and Shane tip-toed to the left side of the house. He peered around, staying crouched out of sight, “Ryan!” He whispered, waving his partner over.

Ryan ducked beneath the back windows, and joined Shane, leaning against the wall, “What?”

“There’s an open window.”

“…Okay?”

Shane sighed, exasperated, flailing his arms nonsensically as if the various motions of his silent rant would cue Ryan in.

“We can’t just climb in, what if he’s… What if he’s in there?”

He was right. God, Shane hated to admit it, but despite all his logic, reasoning, and scientific knowledge, Ryan was far more thoughtful. 

Shane loved going with the flow, he worked best under pressure, but it also made him sloppier. He messed up frequently, and although that made him a better trouble-shooter it delayed his productivity, and sometimes even infringed the safety of his missions.

Ryan was studious, thoughtful, and organized. He paid attention to details and that–on far more occasions than Shane ever wanted to admit–saved Shane’s ass.

Shane licked his bottom lip, anxiously, “Uh…” he wracked his brain for a solution, eyes flickering back and forth.

Ryan bit his lip, sliding down the wall, so he could sit, “Ow!” He breathed, lifting himself back onto his haunches. A decently sized, jagged rock was buried in the dirt, and Ryan plucked it from the ground. He grumbled quietly to himself as he settled back down.

Shane shook his head, his thoughts interrupted by Ryan’s outburst. He offered Ryan an apologetic glance, eyes drifting down to Ryan’s dirt covered gloves. “That’s it!”

“What?”

“Go to the front of the house, an–and toss that rock through his front window. That’ll,” Shane tried to run a hand through his hair, but was met only with the polyester of his hat, “that’ll buy us enough time to get into the house and hide.”

Ryan nodded, thoughtlessly, and ran to the front.

Shane held his breath, straining to hear any sign of the cras–   
“What the hell?!”

The faint clatter of footsteps leaving the nearby window was enough to signal the plan had worked.

Shane smiled proudly, muttering to himself, “Nice job, Ryan.”

“Thanks!”

“Holy shi–Don’t sneak up on me!” Shane hit his friend’s chest, playfully.

Ryan grinned before his eyes spotted the open window. 

They had a job to do. They couldn’t forget that.

Shane pushed the opening wider, sticking his head in to gauge the atmosphere. 

They were entering a small, cream-colored kitchen. The window was planted just atop the sink, this was not going to be an easy break-in. Shane was about to try and hoist himself in further when the muffled footsteps got louder.

Shane pulled out, practically throwing himself on top of Ryan to keep them out of sight. He peered up just the slightest bit, allowing himself to see their target–Keith–open the small broom closet opposite their window.

Keith fished a push broom and dustpan from the back, kicking the door closed behind him and returning to the front room.

“Wha–”

“Shh!” Shane slapped a hand over Ryan’s mouth, eyes boring into him intensely. Shane stole one more quick glance before deciding it was safe for him to release Ryan. “Be careful when you go through.”

Shane slid through, perching his feet precariously on either side of the sink. His hands rested on the small counter piece just before the basin, the pose oddly reminiscent of a frog. He pushed himself forward, sliding down onto the floor.

Ryan passed the baseball bat back to Shane before following behind. He opted for crawling on the counter, unsure if his legs could comfortably or steadily reach either side of the sink. He gave himself a small jumping start, grabbing the edge of the counter to pull himself through, but just as he fully clambered in his foot caught on the handle of the sink.

Shane’s eyes widened, and he yanked Ryan off the counter, grabbing him tightly by the collar of his shirt and steering them both into the closet.

Shane was forced to hunch down, forehead nearly touching Ryan’s, hand still gripping his friend.

Ryan braced himself upright by pushing a hand against Shane’s chest.

Shane held his breath, straining to catch a sign of what was going on.

The shorter man's gaze bore into him, heavy breaths bringing their chests closer together.

Shane could tell Ryan wanted to say something– _ask_ something–but the circumstances, for obvious reasons, didn’t allow for questions or comments.

The footsteps were gone. 

Shane gripped the handle of the baseball bat tighter. He released Ryan, using his now free hand to reach for the doorknob, but, just as his fingers grazed the cold handle, the door was pulled away.

A tall man, just under Shane’s height, stood, stupefied. 

Ryan gawked, eyes darting from their target–Keith–to Shane.

Keith opened his mouth to say who-knows-what but was left winded as Shane thrust the front of the bat into his stomach. He stumbled back, croaking as he caught himself on the edge of his counter. He blinked deliriously, eyes flickering between assailants.

“What… What do you want?”

… They remained silent.

“Fuck! Andrew sent you, didn't he?!”

Shane smirked. So, the devil has a name, hm?

“What do you want?”

Ryan stepped closer,  “Your departure from the ‘organization’ has left us concerned…” he crossed his arms, “You need to keep quiet.”

“I-I–”

Ryan feigned toughness, smirking “Ye-Yes?” He mocked, leaning in.

Keith–wide-eyed and still gaping–snapped to life, and punched Ryan square in the jaw. With a ragged breath, he threw himself in the direction of the front room.

Shane blinked dumbly, overwhelmed, “Uh…”

Ryan–still dazed–gestured for Shane to pursue their target.

The front room was a small, quaint living-room, sweetly arranged. Broken glass littered the couch and coffee tables closest to the main window. The rock, still grimy with dirt, lay atop a pair of creamy white tiles that had cracked upon impact. An abandoned broom and dustpan were propped up against the railing of the pinewood stairs.

Keith’s footsteps were clumsy and frantic, he was just about halfway up the stairs when Shane began the ascent.

“Shit!”

Shane’s body shook, the adrenaline clouding his mind.

Logic told him to stop. Stop terrifying this poor man who was in the exact same predicament as he and Ryan.

Fear, though, fear preached another gospel. Shane dragged Ryan into this. He was the one who wasn't clever enough to help their client, he wasn’t clever enough to escape the mob’s tricks, he wasn’t clever–or, perhaps, thoughtful–enough to prepare for the worst-case scenarios. Scenarios such as their target beelining for the bathroom, just across the stair’s landing, to avoid what was meant to be a relatively painless operation.   
Ryan’s heavy footsteps echoed after Shane.

They couldn’t let Keith lock himself away. The likelihood that he’d have a phone on him or _something_ was too great to risk.

They need to get this done! Shane needed this guilt off his shoulders. He needed to get Ryan out of this.

Ryan had never liked working with the mob even _legally_. He only agreed because money was tight, and Shane insisted that they were simply offering someone the right to the best counsel they could afford.

And now here they were.

Shane drew his right arm back and swung the bat as hard as he could against Keith’s shin.

Keith howled, knees buckling, “Jesus fuck!” He pushed himself backward, trying to cradle his injury. “You’re not gonna let me outta this whether I talk or not!” He spit. His eyes, although blue, blazed like fires. 

Shane – perhaps taller than their victim, perhaps at an advantage–felt small at this moment. The pure loathing in this man’s eyes was enough to make Shane want to apologize for everything and wish the man a wonderful evening. It wasn’t until Ryan stepped nearer that the thought snapped from his mind.

Ryan, his best friend, his college roommate, his business partner… Ryan was counting on _him_ to get them out of this. It was Shane’s fault after all.

“If you shut up then at least you’ll live for another day,” Shane growled as fiercely as he could muster, he was no mobster, that was for sure, and the worry seemed to crackle through his words.

Keith barked out a dry laugh, a crazed smile pulling across his lips, “Oh! Is that so?!” He shook his head, “I’m so thrilled!” Keith continued backing himself up, he was three slides away from the wall just beside the bathroom door and a large, gold, decorative vase. 

“You see,” slide one, “There are only two real ways out of this,” slide two, “I die,” slide three, Keith’s back was flush against the wall, “Maybe not today, but sooner than later,” The movement was subtle, so, so subtle Shane didn’t even notice it at the time, “Or,” Keith’s hand was sliding up the back of the ornate vase, “You die!” Keith pulled his hand back to reveal a Glock 19.

The sound of Ryan shifting his weight, anxiously, reminded Shane once again what he was fighting for.

The gun hadn't been cocked yet. He still had a shot–a slim shot–but a shot nonetheless.

Keith moved to load the gun.

Shane lunged.

It was in that moment that Shane felt comically overwhelmed, almost as if everything was lagging as if he was watching a youtube video on a bad network and he wouldn’t quite understand what had happened until the aftermath. It was always just in the middle of an important, swift moment that his network seemed to cut out, and it wasn’t until his buffering issues were resolved and the consequences were now the reality, that Shane could piece together what he'd missed.

It was here, Shane swinging the bat toward’s Keith’s hands–towards the gun–that he felt that same sense of confusion. This time; however, the stakes were higher. The confusion was mixed with adrenaline hyped hands, with stress-induced headaches, and with the very real possibility of being shot.

The wood hitting metal resulted in a loud _crack_ , the gun skittering across the room, and firing.

Shane tensed, blocking his chest and stomach with his arms meekly… but there was no pain. His eyes flickered open, darting frantically to Keith who seemed just as stunned.

Keith gripped his hands, fingers contorted and mangled, like the limbs of a forgotten doll. They were purplish and the first three fingertips leaked small streams of blood, almost as if the fingers’ themselves were crying over the abuse bestowed upon them.

Shane furrowed his brows. If he was fine and Keith was fine… FUCK!

Shane spun around to check Ryan.

His face was ghastly pale, arms clutching themselves tightly, eyes fixed on the discarded gun. He slowly met Shane’s gaze, and the obvious guilt that clouded the taller man’s eyes elicited a sympathetic smile from Ryan as he dropped his arms. 

Oh, thank god. Shane felt the air kick back into his lungs. Ryan was fine. They were all fine…. They were all fine…

Shane turned back to Keith who also seemed to snap back into the moment because as their eyes met they both lunged for the gun. 

Keith kicking himself with a haggard groan, and Shane sliding clumsily to the weapon. 

Keith gripped the base and aimed, but Shane grasped the barrel and forced it away from his person. 

Keith growled, his final fight or flight instincts taking over. He kicked at Shane, jabbing him repetitively with his elbow, spitting and clawing, anything to get the upper hand.

Ryan stood dumbly watching the indecipherable movement of limbs. He swallowed, nervously, and lunged into the mix. He could feel–what he guessed would be cold if it weren’t for the gloves–metal just in his grasp. He struggled for a stronger grip on the handle, any way to pry it, any way to–

_BANG_

The air fell silent, blood splattering across the pile of men. 

No one moved for a minute. No one spoke, until,

“…Ryan?”

“…Yeah?”

“Fuck…” Shane let himself collapse, exhausted and indescribably thankful.

Ryan, alternatively, sat up to assess the damage.

Shane’s face, glasses, and mask were splattered grossly in blood. Sweat trickled down his forehead, eyes squeezed shut as if the whole ordeal was just in his head, and when he’d open them again he’d be sitting in Ryan’s car worried about their plan. Worried about being caught not about killin–

“Oh my god…” Ryan muttered, “We-We…”

Shane snapped into a sitting position, wide-eyed and paler than Ryan had ever seen him before, “Don’t! Don’t say it! It’s fine! Everything’s fine! It’s-It’s-It’s–” Shane blubbered, his stuttering a whirlwind of choked noises from his mouth. 

Ryan had never seen Shane so disoriented. His friend’s eyes seemed to dance wildly across the scene around them, his vision somewhat obstructed by the blood staining his clear frames. 

Shane closed his eyes again, shaking his head as bile climbed his throat. They had… They had _killed someone_. He risked a glance at Keith.

The man’s battered fingers were curled loosely on the floor, his skin still warm and life-like… but his throat told the truth. Just above the dip of the collarbone and sternum was the gunshot, angled in just a way that it cut clean through his throat, and almost definitely severed the spinal column.

Blood cascaded from his neck, ruining his grey nightshirt and pooling around him almost cinematically. 

The whole thing seemed almost staged, almost fictional… _almost_. 

“What do we do?” Ryan whispered, fixing his attention on the staircase banister, the divots in the floorboards, the texture of the wall. Anything. Anything that wasn’t the dead man beside him, or the most composed, sane person he knew, losing it.

Ryan risked a glance at Shane. 

He had pulled the bandana down from his mouth, lips pursed together in a tight line, nostrils flared. 

“Sha–”

Before the name had fallen from Ryan’s tongue, Shane threw himself to his feet, staggering, almost drunkenly, towards the bathroom. He collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet and retched. His eyes watered as the contents of his stomach scored his throat with fiery bile. Broken sobs fell from his tongue, arms anchoring himself upright on the seat of the toilet.

Pre-murder Shane would have scoffed at the germs that litter the bathroom, let alone the toilet seat. Pre-murder Shane would have forced himself to barf into a sink so that he could promptly washout his mouth. Pre-murder Shane would have fixed himself a ginger ale and say he was right as rain so he could return to whatever he was doing.

But he was not pre-murder Shane. 

He was Shane who had convinced Ryan to go to the mob, he was Shane who agreed to break into a man’s house, he was Shane who swung a baseball bat with the intentions to maim, he was Shane who lunged for the gun, he was Shane who turned the gun in Keith’s direction… He was Shane who was kneeling on the bathroom floor heaving his dinner into their victim’s toilet, arms on the seat, beads of sweat escaping his beanie, hot, angry tears prickling behind his eyes. 

“Shane, hey, hey! It’s okay! It’s… It’s okay!” Ryan soothed, he crouched down next to Shane, rubbing a hand on his back. “I’m… I’m going to clean this up.”

Shane should’ve said something. He should’ve done… _something_. He should’ve said no to that impossible case! He should’ve come up with another way to win! He should’ve fought for an out with the mob! He should’ve argued that they owed them nothing, that they were no one’s pawns, and that, if the mob couldn’t respect that, they too could rain hellfire.

But he didn’t.

He just smiled, apprehensively, and accepted whatever was thrust in his direction not caring that it might fuck him over in the end. Not caring that it might fuck _Ryan_ in the end.

He felt like a china doll. With just a few taps too roughly, he was breaking at every corner and crevice.

Ryan’s footsteps could be heard trotting throughout the house.

The TV–blaring loudly this whole time–normally would’ve left Shane sneering with disdain, but tonight it offered them the perfect cover for the shots and shouts.

Shane spit one last time into the basin, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and stood up, flushing the toilet. 

The blood splattered across his lenses taunted him as if playing the images on a slideshow, and no matter how hard he tried to look somewhere else it was always dancing in his periphery.

Shane approached the sink and set down his frames. His vision blurred only partially, just enough to remind him why he used glasses, to begin with. He ran the cold tap, using his gloved thumb to scrub away the splatters. They could almost pass for red paint or ink… _almost_.

Shane dried them lightly eyes skimming over the blurred knick knacks and hygiene products laying out. Bottles of various shapes and sizes, a comb, a gel, a spare pair of glasses, a pill bottle, and an unpackaged bar of soap were all scattered about. They seemed rather messy, but Shane ventured to guess that they all made sense once, maybe not to him and maybe not to anyone else now, but once.

“Shane, bud?! You feelin' better!?”

Shane stepped out into the hallway, trying to spot Ryan. 

The body was now laying on multiple garbage bags, it had been dragged away from the initial location, but still near enough by. The blood had been scrubbed, but not so much so that you couldn’t see a faint dark spot.

The sick once again churned Shane’s stomach.

Ryan clambered up the stairs, a large cleaver and a roll of paper towels in hand. “Hey… Feeling any better?”

Shane glanced around the scene, trying to convince his psyche that it was all for the best. That the question at hand was just as innocent as normal, “Yeah…”

Shan kept his eyes transfixed on the sight ahead, feeling, blindly, for where he left his glasses and shoving them into his pocket. He didn’t want a reminder of what had happened stuck on his face.

Ryan knelt down beside the body, biting his lip, and assessing where it’d be easiest to cut.

Shane took a deep breath, one that came out worried and not courageous like he had hoped for, and sat across from Ryan. The garbage bags wrinkled under his weight, and he studied the way the cleaver awkwardly fit Ryan’s hand. “Do you… Do you want help with that?”

Ryan’s eyes widened, lips parted just a tad. “Are you sure?”

Shane didn’t answer, he wasn’t sure what would happen if he opened his mouth. Maybe he’d smile an apologetic, yet reassuring smile. Maybe he’d screech. Maybe he’d hurl once more. He wasn’t sure, so instead, he just nodded a curt, determined tilt of the head, and held out his hand.

The smooth wood felt familiar, oddly so, through the gloves. He offered one last innocent glance at Ryan, pulling the bandana back over his mouth, and began to hack. 

This was for the best. 

_ This was for Ryan. _


	4. Back to Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “On record… Everything is fine. Off the record,” He flickered a gaze around the room, pushing himself out of his chair and towards Ryan, “Everything has gone to shit, Ry.”

Their office was nothing particularly extravagant. Two oak desks faced the middle of the room in an “L” position. Ryan’s desk was opposite the door, his back facing two large windows and a small fireplace. Shane’s was on the left side of the room, the tabletop always littered with forms and files. 

A pair of framed news articles depicting their successes lined the wall across from Shane’s seat, centered by a floating bookshelf. Dusty law books, more for show than anything else, livened the room.

A tall–and fake–house plant was tucked neatly into the back right corner beside one of the two large windows.

Ryan stood, fingers still clutching the blind’s string, looking out the now partially open window.

The city street was busy; a mother held her son’s hand on their way to school, a jogger ran past, a few cyclists rode on, and many cars inched their way slowly.

It felt like any other Monday, coworkers sleepily and begrudgingly making their ways into the office. Most carried coffees or teas, a few had bagels, and a handful came in empty handed and far too peppy.

The analog clock, above the door, ticked softly, but just enough to set Ryan on edge. 

His hands shook ever so slightly, and he loosened his tie hoping the subtle action would expel some of the guilty heat from his body.

He caught his own eyes in the reflection of their mirror, which sat above their fireplace. He looked pale, a greenish-purple bruise was forming at the base of his left jaw, and the sweat gathering at his hairline only accentuated his uneasiness. 

He needed to pull himself together. He collapsed onto his desk chair, taking a swig of water to collect himself.

It was just a _normal_ Monday. It was _just a normal_ Monday. _It was just a normal Monday._

“Morning,” Shane nodded, taking a seat and sorting through his paperwork thoughtfully. He seemed well rested and… quite himself? Shane’s honey eyes were alight with chipper pep, a small smile on his lips as he hummed to himself. 

Ryan was just overthinking this. Obviously this whole thing was unfortunate, obviously it’s a big deal to take someone’s life, obviously, it was not their intention, but it happened. It happened and nothing could undo it. When you really thought about it, Ryan reckoned, it was self-defense. They _may_ have broken into their target’s _–Keith’s, he had a name_ –house, but they made it clear enough that they wanted him silent, not dead.  


They did what they had to… Ryan did what he had to… Hell! He didn’t even mean to fire the gun, he was just trying to get it away from the fight!

“Uh… How was your weekend?” Ryan cleared his throat, trying to keep up their typical Monday routine.

Shane shrugged, his dark frames slipping down his face, “Oh, you know,”

Ryan raised a brow, bringing his coffee mug to his lips.

“Pretty… _uneventful_ , honestly.”

Ryan choked, coughing breathlessly into his elbow, “Sorry, sorry, went down the wrong pipe!”

Shane didn’t even offer a second glance, jotting down some information for a new case. He pushed his frames back into place, his tongue flickering over his lower lip, lost in thought.

“Shane?”

The brunet didn’t bother looking up, just humming in response.

“Are those your old glasses?”

Shane turned his attention to his partner, “Hm?” he brushed the glasses with a swipe of his fingers, “Oh, yes! Speaking of which–”

Ryan’s work phone rang loudly, practically vibrating off its hook. He smiled apologetically as he answered, "The law firm of Ryan Bergara and Shane Madej, Bergara speaking.”

“Mr. Bergara, sorry to bother you. It's Detective Norris, a client of yours requests your presence at the station.”

“Who is calling for me, might I ask?”

“Bennett.”

Ryan’s blood ran cold, a lizard who’s sunlight was obscured by the clouds. 

_Bennett was the reason they were in this mess._

He cleared his throat, putting on his usual ‘I’m done with this bullshit’ voice, “And what’re you wrongly charging my client for this time?”

Norris chuckled dryly, “We’re not pressing charges, Bergara,” she spit, mouth full of venomous spite, “We just have a few questions, that’s all.”

Ryan hummed thoughtfully, “I’ll be there in ten.”

“Who was that?” Shane raised a brow, shifting his weight onto his splayed hand.

Ryan grabbed his coat, slinging it over his shoulder, “Bennett’s been brought in. According to Francesca, they’re not pressing charges, but I’ll be supervising just in case things end badly.” He grabbed his brown, leather briefcase. “We’ll chat late? Dinner or something, yeah?”

Shane nodded, waving Ryan away, his favorite red pen in hand, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll hold down the fort.”

* * *

The LA police station was nicer than the media depicted most to be. The floors were polished–well enough that Ryan could make out his reflection–and every countertop and bookshelf was dusted.

The officers all wore freshly ironed uniforms, the detectives in immaculate suits.

Busy chatter and heavy footsteps bounced around the room. The thick aroma of freshly brewed coffee and hot printer paper flooded Ryan’s senses.

He tossed a glance over the different officers’ desks. Some were color-coded and meticulously organized, others a calamity of files, forgotten paperwork, and crumbs.

“Mr. Bergara!” The familiar voice, always laced with faux enthusiasm, beckoned.

Ryan turned to his right, watching the tall, lean woman exit her lieutenant’s office, tea in hand.

“Detective Norris!” Ryan flashed her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’m not one to lie.”

Norris’ smile, a well-lined, tight-lipped lie of a smile, faltered. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t your profession founded on deceit?”

He smirked, trying not to show how badly he wished to grit his teeth, “Deceit? Hardly. I may dance around poorly phrased questions and rearrange narratives, but I _never_ lie.” Ryan lifted his right hand as if being sworn into court, “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth–”

“So help _me,_ _God_. _”_ Norris scowled… well, her eyes did. 

Norris was an odd woman, you see, if you didn’t know her you might have guessed she was a lawyer herself, perhaps a politician, maybe even a CEO of some fancy corporation. Alas, you’d be wrong because, despite her stone cold eyes and sickly smile that seemed stitched into her very bone structure, features that probably could’ve gotten her to the white house by now, she chose to be a detective. A damn good one, too.

So, regardless of her clear contempt for Ryan–and even harsher temperament towards Shane–her grin stayed chiseled across her sharp, angular complexion.

Norris took a heavy gulp from her mug, the action in itself showed how much she longed for something stronger than green tea as she motioned for Ryan to follow.

She led them down a narrow hallway and pushed open the third door on the right.

Bennett sat, arms crossed on the table, glasses beside his hands. “Before you say anything, Mr. Bergara, I didn’t do anything! I swear!”

“Shut up,” Ryan groaned, collapsing into the chair beside him, and pulling out a notepad and pen, “You say nothing unless I let you.”

Bennett nodded eagerly, putting his glasses back on as he sat up straighter.

Norris flipped open the case file, eyes skimming over it. She feigned an openness, a geniality, “Mr. Bennett… May I call you Brent?”

Brent nodded.    
“Brent, according to some recent investigations there is proof you have some connections to a local mob group in town–”

“Had,” Ryan stated firmly, scribbling something onto the pad.

“Pardon?” Norris cocked her head to the side, eyes unamused.

“My client _had_ connections to a local mob group. You stated that he ‘ _has_ ’ those ties, _incorrectly_.”

Norris nodded, a forced–a more forced than usual–smile wrenched her lips tightly. As if the corners of her mouth were being clamped tightly to her cheeks, forcing her artificially whitened smile to contrast heavily from the mauve lipstick she wore. “Of course…”

Brent glanced between the pair hesitantly, clearing his throat, “But, yes, I _had_ mob connections.”

A mischievous twinkle lit up Norris’ eyes, “According to this statement from court, you said, and I quote ‘they’re dangerous… threatening. Once you’re in, you’re in _permanently_. I had no desire to do anything with them, but they back you into a corner… they play off your deepest fears. You can’t just say no.’”

Ryan tensed, what was she playing at?

Brent looked to Ryan for approval to respond but was met with utter nothingness. He gulped, “Yes?”

“‘You can't just say no.’” Norris pushed her chair back, rising to her feet, and pacing, unsettlingly. “‘You can't just say no.’”

“Norris–”

“ _Detective_.” She hissed.

“Oh, no, I’m not a cop, but seeing as how I often do your job I’m not surprised you thought so.” Ryan smirked, adjusting his shirt cuffs, “Do you have a point, _Norris_?”

“Mr. Bennett,” Norris turned away from Ryan, directing her attention to the anxious man, “If one does not simply ‘say no’ to the mob…” She sauntered nearer, still standing, still towering over the pair, “then how have you separated yourself from them?”

“I-uh–”

“My client does not have to answer questions involving his personal life.”

“He may if the answers link him to a crime.”

“Forgetting the fifth amendment, Norris?”

She clicked her tongue, eyes looking to the heavens for strength.

“Regardless,” Ryan raised his hands as if to calm a wild beast, “What pray tell might this crime be?”

“I’m afraid I can’t share that information presently.”

“Of course not!” Ryan guffawed, “How could you?” Ryan scribbled a few more notes onto the pad, chuckling priggishly as he picked up his briefcase and pocketed his writing materials. “Detective, you are not only wasting _my_ time but my client’s time, and unless you can drop the dramatics and roundabout questions than we will be seeing ourselves out!”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.” She quipped, head turning to face him so fast that a few loose strands escaped the messy concoction that was her bun.

Ryan jutted out his jaw, and opened his mouth to growl some impulsive comeback, but was cut off by the door swinging open.

In the hall, peering wearily into the interrogation room, stood Horsley, Holly Horsely, Norris’ partner. She was in her early 30s but her gentle complexion made her look younger. Her hair was a soft, wavy auburn, eyes large and doey, and her freckles were sprinkled across warm skin. She had gold, oval framed glasses that seemed to always rest at the tip of her button nose.

She was the epitome of good cop, always bright-eyed and chipper while Norris played her satanic role of bad cop.

“Uh, sorry, sorry,” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, “Francesca, we’re too late… He’s gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone?’” Norris glared.

“Missing, he’s vanished.”

“Fuck!” She ran a hand through her salt and pepper hair, fluffing it further as she walked out the door. She took one last glance behind her, pointing to Brent, “Bennett, stay in town!”

The men blinked, stupefied.

“You’re free to go!” Horsely smiled apologetically, and followed after her partner but not before shouting a “Nice seeing you Ryan!”

Ryan set his briefcase onto the table. 

The tension in the room was palpably anxious.

He walked to the door, inhaling deeply as he closed it.

“Brent, do _not_ fuck with me here. What _the hell_ is going on?!” He slammed his hands, open palmed, onto the table.

“Shit, Mr. Bergara, I don’t know! I haven’t done anything!” Brent, pale-faced and sweaty, was hunched over. His body caved in on itself, an animal trying to protect its organs.

Ryan ran a shaky hand through his hair.   
This pitiful man, this mobster who was only in ‘the biz’ due to family ties, was the reason blood stained his hands.

This man was reason Ryan sat, car parked, by the back ally of the police station with a pair of nameless thugs, two women. The one beside him, in the passenger seat, was tall, her wavy platinum-blonde bob, flirtatious makeup, and low-cut top were a perfect distraction. Her counterpart sat in the back, she was shorter, dark-skinned, and almond-eyed. Her thick, natural hair was slicked into a tight bun, and she was dressed in all black.

This man was the reason the trio had strut in, as inconspicuously as possible, and flirted, guarded, and crawled their ways into the evidence room.

This man was the reason that what appeared to be a common kitchen knife wound up at the bottom of the Pacific. 

This man was the reason Ryan and Shane were threatened into breaking into someone’s home.

This man was the reason Shane almost died–hell, Ryan almost died!

He shook his head, a gelled strand of hair falling onto his forehead.

“You owe me Bennett–you owe _us!_ If I find out you've done shit–” Ryan clenched his fist tightly in mid-air, “I will drop your ass before you can bat your eyes and plead for defense. Got it?!”

Brent looked down, his grey eyes much like that of a guilty puppy, “y-yeah.” His voice cracked.

“Good!” Ryan seethed, slamming the door open and hastily clambering up the nearby stairwell.

Ryan liked to think of himself as a nice guy–he’d admit he had a bit of a temper, but he was a nice guy. He held the door open for everyone he could, offered to carry their things if they had too much on their hands, said ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ and always tried to see the best in others.

Some might call his optimistic approach naive, and, honestly, they probably weren’t wrong, but Ryan _liked_ believing in people. It was one of the things that pushed him to be a defense attorney. He _liked_ to find that spark of emotion in the eyes of the emotionless.

That’s why he couldn’t stand Norris. No matter what happened or who died her eyes remained hollow. She lacked empathy. Her emotions only ranged from stoic to mildly disgruntled to done-with-this-shit.

She was insufferable, and he wasn’t the only one who thought so. 

On his first case with Shane, since they started their company, Ryan ran–physically–into a young man while picking up some evidence from the station.

He was around Ryan’s height, pale, and with the completion of a Belarusian model. His hazel eyes, pouty, pink lips, and well-groomed, light brown hair, stole Ryan’s heart.

Well, he would have.

Despite his overwhelming charm and wit... he was a detective... and lawyers and cops don't mix.

It didn't matter if they could agree they were " _on the same side. I’m fighting for justice as are you."_ or that they could agree that " _Sometimes, though, justice is subjective… That’s when we differ.”_ Defense attorneys can't have romantic relations with detectives, it never ends well.

They can, however, agree that certain prematurely greying officers are stone-cold demons.

In this industry it isn't rare for cops and attorneys to be acquainted, quite the opposite actually; however, but it is rare for them to be friends, yet, despite their differences, Ryan and Tinsley managed to do just that. 

The momentary chemistry between them faded over time, becoming far stronger as a platonic bond. They had the ultimate “forbidden bromance” as they called it.

It was handy, Ryan thought, for a number of reasons. Whenever Norris pissed Ryan off he could go to Tinsley, whenever Shane was being a pain in Tinsley’s ass he could go to Ryan, and the pair definitely wasn’t above politely needling information out of the other. 

“Tinsley!”

The beautiful man–listen, they could be bros, and Ryan could still admire his ethereal charm–reclined in his office chair, obviously in a heated discussion on the old, corded landline.

“No! I need answers now!” He paused, “I don’t give a damn, get me something or don’t bother coming back to the office!” He slammed the phone onto the hook, rubbing his eyelids with his index finger and thumb. “Ryan… You know I always love to see you, but now is not a good time.”

Ryan paused, the whole room was on the verge of a breakdown… Something was very wrong. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”

Tinsley massaged his the temples, exhaustedly. “On record… Everything is fine. Off the record,” He flickered a gaze around the room, pushing himself out of his chair and towards Ryan, “Everything has gone to shit, Ry.”

Ryan frowned, “How so?”

“The station recently got into contact with a handful of ex-mobsters. The majority is still loyal to the mob, or too scared to snitch on them… But we had one connection who was willing to spill everything, ‘fuck all consequences,’ or whatever…” He threw up sarcastic jazz hands for impact, rolling his eyes, “Well, we got word from another connection that one of our ties might get a visit from the mob. It sounded like the attack would occur this weekend, _but_ ,” Tinsley sighed loudly, “Our informant, Keith Habersberger, has gone missing.”

Ryan’s mouth was suddenly dry, room spinning, “Oh, that’s… that’s awful. Any clues to what happened to him?”

“Not as of yet,” Tinsley collapsed back into his chair, kicking his feet onto the table, “He just seems to have vanished. Like that,” He snapped his fingers.

Ryan nods, backing up towards the staircase, “Ah, well, I hope you get some kind of lead. I don’t want to interrupt this investigation, s-so I guess I’ll head back.” his foot slipped down the first step, but he caught himself on the railing.

“Still as clumsy as ever.”

“Ha,” Ryan shaky handedly loosened his tie, “Guess so… Good evening, C.C.”

“Night, Ry.” Tinsley's phone rang again in the distance, "Tinsley. Hmm? I'll send a team from evidence down, stat, thanks!"

Ryan rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, he had to talk to Shane.

 

* * *

He couldn’t breathe, his vision was spotty and his legs were shaky. He had just reached their office building, stumbling incoherently into the lobby. Their office was on the third floor, he needed to tell Shane.

Fuck! Fuck this whole thing! Fuck the mob! Fuck whoever decided to invent guns!

Oh, God! Ryan’s briefcase slipped from his clammy hands, paperwork spilling across the marble floor.

The loud chatter seemed amplified as if every whisper or laugh was simply mocking his stupidity in thinking this would work. That they would avoid capture.

“Here! Let me help you with that!” A young woman, most likely an intern, knelt beside Ryan. She had long, thick hair and olive skin.

“Ha,” Ryan wheezed, painfully, “Thanks!” His hands trembled as he stuffed the forms into his case.

“Hey, you don’t look that great. You seem awfully pale, maybe you should lay down?”

Ryan waved his hand dismissively, taking the last pile of papers from the woman and stuffing them into a random folder, clasping his briefcase shut. “No, no, that’s not necessary. I just need som-some water is all!”

Ryan sped up his pace, jamming his finger against the elevator’s up button furiously. “Come on, come on!”

A soft ‘ding!’ sounded and Ryan collapsed into the small box, he pressed ‘3’ and closed his eyes. He needed to steady his breathing. His heart felt like it was going to explode.

Oh, God. They were gonna get caught!

‘Ding!’

Ryan took one step onto their floor, his head painfully dizzy. _Shit_! He threw himself into the office, the corners of his vision fogging up. 

Shane didn’t bother looking up from his laptop, “Hey, Ry–”

_Thud._

“Ryan?” Shane glanced ahead, brows furrowed, no one was standing there… His eyes trailed to the floor, “Shit!” He leaped from his seat, kicking the door shut. “Hey, hey, Ryan… Come on, Buddy!”

Ryan blinked blearily, gaze flickering around the room, it was _so_ bright “What the fuck?”

“You… passed out?”

_Oh_ … _Right_ … _The investigation_. “Shane… Habersberger was a criminal informant for the LAPD.”

“What?” Shane’s breath hitched. “Do… Do they know?”

Ryan shook his head, “No, they think he’s missing.”

“Okay,” Shane nodded, allowing himself to fully sit on the ground, “Okay, we can work with that. We disposed of all the evidence, they have no proof of anything, we’re good! We’re in the clear!” Shane smiled, a forced smile but any smile from Shane was enough to reassure Ryan.

Ryan licked his lips, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, “Yeah. You’re right. Everything is under control.” 

Shane nodded, decidedly, “Good. Okay.”

They both stood, helping each other weakly, still shaken. 

“I vote we call it early. We don’t have any pressing cases.”

“Yeah…” Shane agreed, his head was pounding too much to keep doing mindless paperwork.

Ryan smiled, patting Shane’s bicep thoughtlessly, “Uh… Bye, Man.”

“Wait! Ry,”

The pet name, despite everything, sent a small shiver up Ryan’s back. Shane never used that pet name, Tinsley always had–joking that it made them sound more like lovers–but Shane strictly stuck to short jokes as calling cards.

“Yes?”

“I accidentally grabbed your glasses the other day,” Shane held out a pair of thin, black frames.

Ryan frowned, giving them a quick once-over, “No… Those aren’t mine. Mine have navy blue on the ends.”

Shane laughed, a flash of worry flickering across his eyes so quickly it could’ve been in Ryan’s head, “Oh, my bad! I must’ve grabbed someone else’s at Starbucks yesterday. Never mind!”   
Ryan smiled fondly at Shane. His best friend, his partner.

They would be okay. They had each other. “See you tomorrow, Shane.”

“Goodnight, Ry.”


	5. Evident Evidence and Equivocal Engagements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan smirked, "I have a business proposition for you.”
> 
> “I’m listening.”

The flickering rays of the nearby streetlamp filtered through the curtains. 

The overhead ceiling fan creaked on a choppy low, clothing and miscellaneous items spilled across the floor as furniture lay overturned.

Shane knelt on all fours, head crammed under his bed. He threw his left hand out blindly, it _had_ to be here! This was the only place he hadn’t checked yet!

His fingers brushed hard plastic. 

Oh, thank god!

He drew his glasses into the light… Except… They weren't his glasses.

A hanger, a broken, black hanger lay mockingly in his grasp.

“Fuck.” He muttered, hopelessly. His voice cracking as the guilt bubbled in his throat.

Shane ran an anxious hand through his hair, specks of dust tumbling down.

He left them… He _actually_ left them!

 

Fuck. Fuck! _Fuck!_

 

He needed to get those glasses back! _Before_ the cops figured out Keith was murdered.

They had disposed of the body well, blood clinging to their clothes as they tore skin apart. He was buried, scattered through the woods a few blocks from the house. They had bleached the floor, dumped the garbage in some back alley dumpster, and burned their clothes in Shane’s fire pit.

They bought themselves some time.

They’d be fine!

They had to be! Shane wasn’t going to let his glasses be the reason they got caught or, worse, the reason Ryan ended up hating him.

He had to do something!

He whimpered under his breath another defeated and guilty, “Fuck.”

He sat, back to his bed, legs sprawled limply. He was hunched over, eyes fixed on the grooves in the elm flooring. 

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, the movement of every blood cell overwhelmingly noticeable.

He gasped, cement filling his lungs, the weight of the guilt like mortar sealing off his throat.

His knuckles whitened as he clawed at the blanket and bedsheets beside him.

Tearless sobs wracked his body, shaking his rib cage as if a scared animal was fighting to get out.

He was struggling to catch up with his breath, to catch up with the jumbled thoughts in his mind, to catch up with the hammering of his heart, but they were all too fast. All just out of reach. 

Each time he thought he was steadying himself, spasms shook him. 

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

He shook his head. Nauseating bubbles sloshed in his stomach.

His vision was distorted like trying to see through heavy rainfall on your windshield, like trying to look around through the blue tinted lights of an aquarium, like a kaleidoscope.

“No. No. No.” He mewled, covering his mouth with a shaky hand. 

He couldn’t feel his legs, his body was hot, his chest ached.

“I’m going to die. Fuck! FUCK!” He sobbed.

He tried to stand, but his legs crumpled beneath him like a house of cards. A pained yelp escaped his lips, one hand holding him upright as the other steadied him against the door frame.

He needed to do something. 

He was _dying_! He needed to do _something_!   
He crawled on the floor, his chest and knees too heavy to stand. It was as if shackles were holding him back, trying to force him to submit to the hell his mind was jailing him in.

His phone sat innocently on the arm of the black recliner, face down. It seemed to taunt him, so close and yet so far.

His hands were slick with sweat, chills traveled over him in waves, and dribbles of hot saliva leaked from his open mouth. 

He gurgled, incoherently, whines of regret. He sounded like an animal caught in a bear trap, and he finally understood why they would often resort to gnawing off their own limbs… because anything was better than this pain.

He was having a heart attack, wasn’t he? Oh, god. The pains in his chest couldn’t be normal. 

He never considered himself to be a guilty person. When he messed up he preferred to forget than dwell, but he couldn’t forget. He couldn’t forget and the fear was _literally_ killing him! Wasn’t it?!

He reached for the phone, handshaking to the point that Shane was genuinely convinced he could’ve been experiencing an earthquake. 

He pulled up the keypad… He could call 911. He could. He could just do it, and get this all over with now.

Put an end to his regrets. An end to his fears. So, he’d live his life in prison. That beat dying alone on the floor of his apartment.

“FUCK!” He broke, and the last ties of his composure broke with him. 

He cried. Not gently, not even silently, as he typically did whenever he cried, but pitifully. His face was hot, head pounding–he could’ve sworn someone was trying to cave his skull in with a baseball bat. His tears fell like a broken faucet, the kind that has no control of pressure, the kind that always soaks the front of your shirt.

He couldn’t see, eyes burned with exhaustion. 

He brought his phone to his ear, holding his breath.

“Shane? What’s up it’s 2 in the morning!” His voice was sleepy, husky, and, if he wasn’t dying, Shane might have been amused at the sound, but he _was_ _dying_. “Shane?”

He opened his mouth, he tried to make some sense of the thunderous noises in his head. “I-I–”

“What?” Ryan encouraged, “Shane, I can’t hear you.”

His mouth was suddenly so dry, a desert that his tongue couldn’t survive in. “Sorry!” Shane slammed the end call button, throwing his phone carelessly across the room. 

He fell back, letting his body rest against the cool ground. The room was dancing in circles, his head felt like the marble in a roulette wheel, rolling around and around.

He kept his eyes clamped tight, tears still streaming down. 

_Buzz buzz, buzz buzz, buzz buzz._

His phone vibrated rhythmically, Shane didn’t want to move. He was worried that if he opened his eyes the endless sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach would climb back up his chest, and force more cement into his lungs, perhaps tie a noose around his neck, too, just for good measure.

Even so, he reluctantly reached an arm out, pawing blindly–because he lost his glasses, his mind compulsively reminded him–in search of his phone.

He pulled it close to his ear, “R-Ryan?” He hiccuped, biting down unforgivingly on his lower lip to keep himself silent. 

“Shane, buddy? You okay?”

Shane tried to summon an intelligent, inconspicuous response but when he opened his mouth another pathetic moan fell from his mouth.

“H-hey, it’s okay! It’s okay! What's up?”

“I think I’m dying.”

“What!?” The sound of Ryan pushing himself up barely filtered through, “Why? What’s going on?”   
“I-I-I can’t breathe! And my heart’s beating so fast! And my hand’s won’t stop shaking! And my chest hurts! I-I think I’m having a-a heart attack.”

“Listen to me, Shane. You’re not dying! I need you to listen to me.”   
Shane nodded, an act that–because of his overwhelmed mind–didn’t register as useless.

“I need you to hold your breath. Just take as large of a breath as you can and hold it, okay?”   
“O-okay.” So, he did. He sharply inhaled–an act that seemed utterly pointless because he was just as breathless as before–and held it.

His body still shook, but his head wasn't spinning anymore, and he allowed himself to exhale. 

“Okay, now do it again.”

So, once again, he did.

“Again.”

Inhale. Exhale.

“Again.”

Shane sat up slowly, his fingers still quivered, but his chest felt lighter.

“Feeling any better?”

“Yeah… Yeah.” He was quiet, and still out of breath as if having run a marathon, but he wasn’t dying.

“You had a panic attack. It’s not uncommon if you’re under intense stress or have anxiety, like me.”

“Wait… This is normal?”

“Eh, normal? Normal enough that you shouldn’t be worried.”

“I thought I was dying, Ryan.” Shane flushed, embarrassed at his own stupidity. _Obviously_ , he _wasn't_ dying, but… he felt so… hopeless.

“That’s not uncommon.”

“Do… Do you get panic attacks a lot?”

“Uh, no. Not anymore. I used to take meds for them because they would happen so frequently, but I’ve figured out how to control them on my own, and they’re less frequent now.”

Shane smiled halfheartedly. 

Ryan was so strong, he was able to handle so much and still act so composed. It baffled Shane, his best friend was truly an anomaly, yet he was so blind to his own greatness.

“Was this because of… the other night?”

He couldn't let Ryan worry. If he found out how careless Shane had been, how caught up in his own fear and guilt…“Yeah. I’m just overwhelmed I guess. Haunted, in a sense.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

Shane laughed half-heartedly at that before a soft silence settled over the pair. He took solace in how quiet everything sounded without the hammering of his heart in his head.

“But, really, we don’t have anything to worry about. We’ve disposed of everything. We’ll be fine.”

The lump was back in Shane’s throat, he just wanted to sleep, he wanted to be able to forget about this until morning. He wanted to be able to escape the torments of his mind.

“… Ry, I think I’m gonna head to bed.”

“Oh! Yeah, haha, of course.”

“Thank you for… ya know… helping me.”

“Always. It’s what friends are for.”

Shane pursed his lips.

“Goodnight, Shane.”

“Mhm. Night night, Ry.”

Ryan laughed sleepily, “Night night.”

 

* * *

 

They should’ve set the house on fire. They should’ve staged the whole thing. They should've been so thorough it couldn’t be solved. 

They should’ve double checked that nothing was left behind. They should’ve been more careful! More thoughtful!

They had let their humanity get to them.

What if they left something? 

Ryan ran a hand through his hair. His head was propped up limply in the other, arm resting on his desk, he couldn’t help shake the paranoia off his shoulders. 

Shane’s call just reminded him how careless he was being. 

He busied himself with emails, mostly requests for his services but the occasional business proposition filtered through.

“Morning,” Shane didn't meet Ryan’s eyes, but his tall stature didn't allow him to hide his face, no matter how much he hunched over.

His gaze looked empty, not quite bloodshot but still too red to be normal. His cheeks seemed more hollow than usual, dark circles framing his eyes. His scruffy jawline had darkened, just in-between a soft shadow and the beginning of a beard.

He tossed his messenger bad onto his chair, pulling files from his bag, and shuffling to the cabinet beside the door.

Even his outline seemed harsher, the curves of his body now jagged and sharp. He moved stiffly as if walking on thin ice–which, in a way, Ryan supposed they were, one wrong move and their chilling facade would crumble around them.

Honestly, Shane looked… Ill.

Ryan bit his lip, guilt delivering a swift uppercut. He tried to train his eyes somewhere else, but, like a moth drawn to a flame, he was staring once more.

In all their time together Ryan had only seen Shane miserable three times. First, in college, after he and his girlfriend broke up–she was moving and wanted a fresh start–second, in that damned house… And third, here. _Now_.

He hated it; the way the smile lines that complimented Shane’s mouth had faded, the way he mirrored the structure of a porcelain doll–even the slightest wrong move and he’d break. 

Ryan wanted to see Shane happy, full of snarky and sarcastic energy! He wanted to see him full of loose smiles and nonchalant shrugs. He wanted to see him peaceful, eyes content and skin glowing… He wanted unending bliss for Shane.

Instead, Ryan was focused on observing every endearing mannerism he’d grown to love–platonically, of course–stripped away with the fear he’d be more… fragile?

Ryan didn’t have many options, he needed undeniable proof that they would have no trouble getting away with this. He needed confirmation. He needed–

Ryan couldn’t believe he was debating this. This was the way this whole thing started to begin with!

He rubbed the back of his neck, how would he even manage to do this anyway? It’s not like he could just get the contacts from Shane’s phone without raising suspicion.

“Uh… I gotta head to the station, I have to see if Horsley can give me more information about the investigation they’re running,” Ryan smiled, an easy smile… An easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I guess I’ll head out now.” He tried not to seem too stiff as he headed for the door. Despite their profession and his quick wit, he was never good at lying to Shane. 

“…Hey, Ryan?”

He tensed.

“Could you drop this case file off at the DA on your way? I don’t wanna go to the station today if I can avoid it.”

Ryan nodded, breathing a discreet sigh of relief and taking the folder from Shane’s hand.

“See you in a bit!”

The drive to the station was surprisingly fast, the rains having cleared most people from the busy roads. 

Ryan was never great at remembering his umbrella, so he resorted to holding his briefcase over his head as he ran up the steps. 

Small beads of water ran down his face, and he shook his head jarringly in a futile attempt to escape them.

His footsteps were heavy and deliberate, determined to get this over and done with–for Shane’s sake.

Tinsley was, as he always seemed to be, reclining in his chair, feet propped up onto his desk, phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other–despite the complaints from higher-ups.

His hazel eyes never left the computer screen before him, but he tossed his cigarette-holding-hand towards Ryan in a wordless salutation.

“Jesus, do I have to tell you again? I don’t give a damn if forensics is backed up, I need as much information on those glasses as I can get!” He threw the phone onto the receiver and spun to face Ryan. “What’s up, Ry-guy?”

“Norris around? She has some numbers I need.”

“Beats me,” He shrugged, taking another drag from the cig. “She’s neck deep in paperwork and complaints from the big guys for gettin’ her informant lobbed off.”

“S-Sorry?” Ryan raised a brow.

“Ya know,” Tinsley ran his thumb across his throat.

His chest started to ache again, “He… He’s dead?”   
“Well, we’re not certain yet, but the likelihood seems… Well… _Unfavorably_ good.”

Ryan’s grasp on his bag tightened, and he was suddenly glad for the drenching in rain, it would hide the cold sweat that was breaking out across his body, “Any evidence?”

“Can’t say right now, everything just seems like the victim’s stuff.”

“Pity.” Ryan spit, he was too close to breaking to keep up this charade any longer, “Guess I should head off, good luck.” He didn’t wait for a reply, instead, he focused on the way his vision was vignetted red–like the fatal warning signs in a first-person video game–and charged down the hall.

If luck was on his side, Norris would be out, but if this week was any indicator of fate’s feelings towards him than this would most likely not end in his favor.

Ryan didn’t use to consider himself much of a religious man. His parents would take him to church here and there, but it wasn’t until his first year in college when his brother had gotten into a car accident that things changed. 

The doctors and nurses had apologized, not fully addressing the elephant in the room, but still offering pitying glances towards it. There were only two things left to do, that’s how the doctors put it, mourn what was left of the living or pray.

So, Ryan prayed. 

He wasn’t sure why, but he tilted his head down, brought his hands together, and prayed that any and all powers above take mercy on his family.

And then his brother got healthier, unexplainably so as if the whole thing was just something to be slept off.

Ryan never considered himself a religious man, but he was indebted to the divinities above. He promised himself he’d take more time to pray, and acknowledge the possible good graces shining upon him, which led him here; head tilted down, hands–subtly–clasped together, and the murmur of prayer on his lips.

He needed Norris to be out. _Please_.

“Amen.” He breathed, eyeing the doorknob wearily. He pushed it down, waiting a beat for a berating on entering without knocking, yet none came.

She was out! She was out! 

“Thank you!” He cheered, a small, hopeful smile on his lips. God understood. He knew their intentions at the time were only pure…. Well… As pure as could’ve been in that situation.

This was a sign, they’d be alright– _if_ they were thoughtful. 

Ryan closed the door behind him, setting his briefcase on the chair across from Norris’ desk. 

Case files were stacked in a way that looked _almost_ neat, but the moment you stepped closer you could see papers sticking out at all ends and leaning precariously in opposite directions.

He sunk into her chair, a shrill squeak sounding from the old plastic fame. 

His eyes skimmed the contents of her laptop, the calendar on her desk, and the brown address book nestled under a group of papers.

He pursed his lips dragging his fingers down the top folder of her pile.

 

_ ‘CASE FILE: #134HC’ _

 

He flipped it open. At least 50 handwritten statements were piled within, all in the same messy writing, a slight wayward tilt to the words. 

Ryan flickered over the contents. They were Keith’s statements! They were the names of potential mob bosses! Numbers! Addresses! Crimes!

He wracked his brain for that stupid name! Jackass had a name! Keith said it! 

‘A…’ _something_.

“Garrett Warner, Quinta Brunson, Ned Fulmer (formerly involved), Zach Kornfeld (formerly involved), Eugene Lee Yang (formerly involved), Adam Bianchi,”

That had to be it! Adam! 

Ryan furrowed his brows, that didn’t sound right though. Nevertheless, it was the last name on the page. He turned the paper over in his hands, ink blots blurring a handful of words together.

Three names were left on the back. The first was crossed out as if the gravity of it had forced his silence, another was... well, it wasn't a name per se, but a collection of useless symbols, the last though… The last was familiar. “Andrew Ilnyckyj.”

Ryan grinned a relieved and wicked grin. He could do this, he could ensure their safety. 

“Yes, yes, I know!” Norris’ voice rang from down the hall, her normal authoritative tone on full display. “I just haven’t had any more time to press them! I’ve been so busy with this godforsaken homicide.”

“Francesca! He was a human being! We were supposed to protect him!” Holly–only Holly would dare confront Norris–seethed. 

“He knew the risks!”

Ryan scrambled, taking the paper and balling it into his coat pocket. He didn’t have enough time to get out, they were just outside if his gauge of sound was anything to go on.

“He thought we’d be there for him!”

“I know!” She yelled, an angry… almost emotional howl. “I know… But he’s dead now… All we can do is find his killer.”

Ryan rolled beneath the desk, clamping a hand over his mouth. 

The door creaked open and Norris’ grey kitten heels treaded near to the desk. 

He strained to make out any notable movements, but she was silent. 

Holly exhaled, reluctantly, “Norris–”

“I need a moment.” She–Ryan would almost describe it as a whine if he didn’t know who he was referring to.

“Do you want me to send evidence back out there?”

He thought, at first, she must've just nodded, or been lost in thought, but then he heard it. The small squeak of a voice cracking as if trying not to cry or yell, the same whimper Shane had when he called Ryan mid-panic attack only that morning. “Y-Yes. We’re gonna find that son of a bitch! We’re going to tear down this whole organization! Habersberger’s death will not be in vain!”

“Well said, partner.”

Norris steadied herself, slamming the door shut as she leaned against it. 

He could see her through the crack separating the bottom of the desk from the ground.

She brought her arm flat against her mouth and screamed, loud, yet muffled, angry, yet heartbroken.

She was pissed.

Whenever Norris was emotional it just festered into rage, rage that would manifest itself into damn good police work. She pinched her cheeks, cleared her throat, and with one last sniffle, she walked out the door. 

She was in war mode.

They knew! It came crashing down on him. He wasn’t sure how, but they did! 

He still had time though! Evidence was only now going to be sent on its way! 

Right?

Ryan rolled out from under the desk, fixing his appearance to moderately decent, he grabbed his briefcase and headed out. 

The phone was shaky in his hand, but he was in a rush to dial that number. 

“Ryan,” 

_Fuck!_ He needed to make this call!

Ryan reluctantly turned to face Holly, “Yes?”

“Tinsley told me you were lookin’ for Fran–Norris and me?” She smiled, a bit awkwardly at the unprofessional slip of the tongue.

“Oh, it’s nothing, I’m headed out now anyway–” Ryan tried to back away, but Holly’s chipper smile only grew suffocatingly warmer.

“Nonsense! What’s up?!” Her aura, bubbly and endlessly endearing was so _not_ what Ryan needed right now.

“Holly, it’s nothing, _really_.” He turned on his heel, ready to make an overwhelmed bolt for the door, but _once again_ she grew nearer.

“Ryan, it clearly isn’t nothing if you came all this way to find–”

“Jesus, Holly! Will you just let it go! I’ll come in tomorrow I’m just dealing with shit right now!” He snapped, waving his hand–phone tightly in grasp–around wildly.

She took a step back, the warmth in her amber eyes melting, “I… Uh, yeah, sure. Sorry.”

Ryan sighed, his shoulders felt so heavy. So weighted in guilt. “No… I’m sorry. I’m just dealing with stuff at home,” Maybe if he could just throw this out he could go, he was losing precious time here, but he _also_ couldn’t risk losing face with the ones searching for him.

“Is it Shane?”

“Huh?” Ryan almost let the whole thing slide, but… Yeah, in a way it was, he figured, and a partial truth was better than a whole lie. “Y-Yeah! Yeah… It is. How’d you know?”

She shrugged, “I know it can be hard being partners, and…” Her eyes flickered around the room, “ _Partners_.” She crossed her middle and forefinger together.

Ryan frowned, about to ask what she was on about when “Uh-Oh! Yeah, haha… Wait… You and Norris are,” He mimicked her hand gesture.

Holly bit her lip bashfully, tucking a strand of her cinnamon hair behind her ear. “Yeah…”

Ryan almost stumbled in, almost let himself fall into this wonderful fantasy world where the two contrasting lesbian detectives that were searching for him and his ‘partner’s’ unsolved crimes were all friends. Where everything was just one big gay _fairy_ tale, but goddammit he couldn't let them get busted.

He couldn’t ruin Shane’s life. Not when he had the opportunity to fix everything. Almost everything. “Well, as much as I want to hear all about that… I do have some stuff back at the office to attend to.”

Holly smiled, gently, her kind eyes content once again. “Of course, good luck with everything, Ryan.”

“You too, Holly.”

 

The outdoor air was chilly as the last sprinkles of rain fell, and Ryan took a wary glance around as he brought his phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Andrew Ilnyckyj?”

The other end was silent as if contemplating the next move, “Who is this?”

“This is Ryan Bergara.”

“How’d you get my name? My number?”

Ryan smirked, the power imbalance now in his favor, “Unimportant, but if you’re interested in the actual story at hand then… I have a _business_ proposition for you.”

“I’m listening.”

 

* * *

 

“I know, I know. You’ll be in touch. Okay, got it. Bye.”

Shane stood flickering mindlessly through one of the law books. He gifted Ryan a tight-lipped smile, watching his partner pocket his phone as he walked in.

“How was Norris?”

Ryan grimaced, tossing his coat off, “On to us.”

Shane walked over and shut the door, not daring to turn around. He wasn’t sure if looking at Ryan would comfort or destroy him. “Wh… Why?”

“Not sure,” The sound of his shoes hitting the top of his desk clued Shane in on Ryan’s relaxed, reclining state. “Well, she’s not on to _us_. She just knows Keith’s dead.”

They knew he was dead?

Shit!

They would find the glasses. They’d be able to trace them back, wouldn’t they? Or were they a popular brand? Shane wasn’t sure. How did glasses even become ‘popular?’ At what point would it be rare for him to have one? Would–

“Hey, man, hey!” 

Shane glanced towards the shorter man.

Ryan ushered him over, “It’s okay, calm down.”

Shane exhaled slowly, leaning his splayed hands on top of Ryan’s desk, he hadn't realized how overwhelmed his whole body was. 

Ryan placed his hand on Shane’s, “It’s _o-k_ _.”_

But it wasn’t! Shane had left his fucking glasses and they were going to be the reason he and Ryan got locked up!

“I-uh…”

“We took care of the crime scene. We _did_.”

The suffocating pressure on Shane’s heart was back, that anvil that threatened to crush his ribs. He grit his teeth to steady himself, eyes burning holes into the table top’s wood, a strand of hair tumbling into his eye line.

He had to do something. _Fast_.

“Shane,” Ryan’s face was relaxed, almost glowing–God, he looked so good, so at peace.

A warmth, that could’ve been contributed to the adrenaline rush flooding his body or the less than heteronormative thoughts bouncing in his head, caused Shane to look away.

“We’re gonna be alright, dude. I promise. Till death do us part, yeah?”A lopsided, toothy grin met Shane’s gaze and he couldn’t help but grin warmly back.

“Yeah, till death, or whatever.”

  
“Go home, you need some rest.”

Shane wanted to retort, exclaim he was fine, but he wasn’t. And he needed to make a plan. “Night, man.” He didn’t have a choice.

 

He had to do this, he told himself.

It was either that or potential discovery.

It’s not like he could turn to someone else for help, not without complicating things more than he already had.

Shane sighed reluctantly, watching his reflection split as the elevator doors opened.

He had one option:

 

He had to steal the evidence from the crime scene. _Now_.

 


	6. A Deal With The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could no longer repent, no matter how badly he longed to.  
> The devil wanted him, and even the most remorseful and merciful of angels had turned away.
> 
> He had asked to play with fire, and now he was getting burned.

**8:13 P.M.**

 

The air seemed cooler than it had that awful Sunday night. 

More leaves danced in the wind, their dead shells scraping against the street. 

The lamplights flickered, ominously.

 

Shane pulled his coat tighter around himself, eyes darting up and down the suburban street.

 

The front door was roped off with bright yellow police tape in the shape of an ‘X.’

 

Part of that usual human guilt, the small voice in the back of the head that reminds you of wrongdoings, called out to him. 

Told him ‘ _it’s not too late to turn back_ ,’ but it was. He had _killed_ a person.

He had felt the thick, warm blood spray across his face. 

He had watched the ferocious blue of Keith’s eyes drain to dull nothingness. 

Trespassing and tampering with a crime scene would hardly redden his ledger. 

His right hand, gloved in a rough, black leather, turned the knob tentatively.

 

A small creak whispered from the hinges, but Shane disregarded it, turning his attention promptly towards weaving inside.

 

He pushed his beanie, the same bloodied beanie, further onto his head, and locked the door behind him. He wanted to hurry, to get in and out in the blink of an eye. He _needed_ to, for his sanity.

And yet he was stuck, feet simply for decoration as they refused to obey his commands.

 

The house was far more eerie like this. The only light inside came from a small, forgotten desk lamp. The warm wood flooring swashed in its golden glow.

To his right was the familiar setting, the couch–still coated in dusty soil–the table–still decorated with a beer bottle and the remnants of a slice of pepperoni pizza–and the rock–still framed by cracks in the tile and bits of foliage.

It looked like a movie scene, a shot from an old noir mystery. A moment detached from himself and his life, or so Shane wished.

A small white paper, folded into a tent, sat beside the rock. It was labeled with a bolded, “ **8**.”

They hadn’t taken all the evidence! It was still labeled and waiting for the forensic photographer, or so he guessed.

A small, undeserved smile broke Shane’s lips.

Maybe he wasn’t too late.

 

He walked towards the elegant staircase, the wood still seemed to echo with their frantic footsteps.

Shane tossed a glance into the kitchen, he nodded, satisfied. The window and broom closet were closed, just like they had left them, no tent-like papers signaling suspicion.

 

The stair’s floorboards groaned under his weight. Did they use to creak?

 

His blurry mind couldn't recall.

 

The whole thing playing back in his head like footage from an unfocused camera. A distorted, shaky fusion of colors and incoherent voices.

He paused as he reached the second-floor landing. The warped laminate flooring, a faux mahogany, still seemed to hold Keith’s body. Still seemed to be soaked in viscous crimson. Still seemed too familiar for Shane’s liking.

 

The gold vase had been dragged a couple inches away from the wall to reveal the duct tape holster, labeled with a small “13.” 

The air felt heavier up here as if its pressure was daring him to spill apologies and confessions from his gaping mouth.

He never wanted to come back, and the thundering thrum of his heart only attested to that.

He turned to step nearer towards the bathroom, the door pushed ajar, when something caught his eye.

 

Just to the left of the door was… another tent? 

It read, “ **15** ”, the paper a bit crinkled as it stood innocently positioned against the wall.

The ends of his lips turned down, and he knelt to examine the marker further.

What was it labeling? They had dropped nothing, and they had swept every piece of dust or potential speck of DNA. What was it labeling?

 

Shane pursed his lips, brows scrunched together, a near-comical expression plastered onto his face.

“ _Shit_ ,” he breathed.

 

Just a foot above the tent a round indent could be spotted, a deep, brown-red staining the plaster.

He should've remembered!

The bullet had cut clean through Keith’s throat, and here–in this pitiful crevice in the wall–the bullet had been hidden away.

The cops must’ve taken it to forensics to get a positive ID on the blood.

So, they hadn’t taken _everything,_ but they had taken _some_ things. They had taken _some_ things that gave them enough reason to believe Keith was dead… 

A bullet could have just as easily grazed or barely named him, so what gave them away?

 

He nervously swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, standing to his full height, and exhaling–a silent prayer, in a way, that spilled from his lungs–as he made his way to the threshold of the bathroom.

* * *

 

**8:57 P.M.**

 

When the phrase “you’ll be in touch” had left his lips, it seemed almost casual. Almost pure-hearted and of good conscience. _Almost_.

When the phrase “you’ll be in touch” had left his lips, no tremor in his voice alluding to his overwhelming worry had given him away.

When the phrase “you’ll be in touch” had left his lips, no one, apart from him, knew how badly his hands were slick with sweat.

It could’ve been an honest work call, a bit of banter with friends, a loving checkup from his mother. It could’ve. Instead, however, it was a bitter, monotonous voice reminding him of what he was getting himself into. A warning that held an air of mockery, the voice’s owner– _Andrew_. _Andrew Ilnyckyj–_ knew he had no other choice.    
So, against all better judgment, he accepted. He threw caution to the wind and murmured out a hushed “I know, I know. You’ll be in touch.”

 

And that they were.

It was just nearing 8:20, he had kicked back in his recliner, a beer in hand when his phone buzzed loudly. 

Perhaps he should’ve been worried about the caller being a cold-blooded criminal, perhaps he should’ve been on high alert, perhaps. Yet, Ryan thought nothing of the ‘unknown caller number,’ blinking sleepily as he accepted the call.

He had thought nothing of the bored way he gurgled, “Ryan Bergara speaking.”

He had thought nothing of the dark chuckle that first greeted his ears, and he thought nothing of its venomously joyous, “Oh, I should hope so.”

He thought nothing of the whole ordeal until the words, “We have an assignment for you, Mr. Bergara.”

The voice was new, unfamiliar and calculated. More personable than Andrew’s but just as sickly amused.

 

“I-I didn’t agree to that!” He had sputtered, throwing himself onto his feet–like it would make a difference–there was no way to play mind games over the phone, standing didn’t create the illusion of power.

“I assure you, you did. You accepted all the consequences, _vehemently_.” The voice teased, again.

It was right, he had. He thought before when they had to bargain with Andrew, that they were making deals with the devil. 

Ah, how naive Ryan had been.   
  
He should’ve known that Andrew was just another puppet, another marionette on a string.

This voice, this voice spoke with dignified, unabashed power.

“Do you accept this mission?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Hmm… Do you like the idea of being 6 feet under?”

Ryan had paled, “Can’t say I do.”

The voice laughed, a full guffaw of pure mirth, “Then I suppose not.”

 

That’s why Ryan was now here, once again dressed too similarly to a comic book criminal, in front of a quaint grey house.

It had no noteworthy landscaping and lacked motion-sensitive lights, both Ryan was thankful for.

He expected his hands to shake more, he expected his stomach to slosh with the gravity of his morality. Instead, he was calm. A bit caught up in the logistics, but calm.

Too calm, he thought, but who was he to complain? It was better than the alternative, wasn’t it?

He cracked his hands, steadying his heart rate with a few deep breaths and headed towards the back door.

He couldn’t risk screwing this up.

* * *

 

**9:00 P.M.**

 

But there wasn't a marker!

There wasn’t a small tent-like paper.

There wasn’t anything indicating interest in that corner where he had idled out of sight from Ryan’s surely pitiful gaze.

 

Shane strolled up his driveway, hands shoved into his pockets. His face was flushed, the cool air dusting a rosy hue across his nose.

He seemed collected, at first glance, but had someone taken the time to watch him, his composed facade would be bursting at the seams quite obviously. He was walking just a touch too fast to be calm, his head darted too jarringly in the direction of any noise, and his shoulders seemed permanently tensed.

 

But there wasn’t a marker!

There were no glasses _and_ no markers. They had left the marker for the bullet, so had they found something why not leave a label behind?

 

Shane tore the beanie from his head, flicking every light in the apartment on. He knew he was being dramatic, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of pins and needles from his skin.

He needed a hot shower or a drink. Something.

 

Everything was fine, wasn’t it? He didn’t have a reason to fret. Their only notable piece of evidence wasn’t even there!

Or was it? Had he dropped it somewhere else? What if he just further contaminated the crime scene while he was there?

That heavy, painful worry, that ‘claws in his stomach and cement in his lungs’ kind of worry was becoming a far too familiar feeling.

 

He swallowed, the gritty tightness of his airway making him gag. 

He rolled his shoulders, he wanted to call Ryan. He _should_ probably call Ryan. Who else would know how to deal with Shane 2.0, _broken Shane?_  

...But what if these anxiety riddled calls were bothering him? What if he was being a nuisance?

  
He grit his teeth. He shouldn't bother Ryan, he didn't _want_ to  _bother_ Ryan; nevertheless, his fingers went in search of his contacts app. 

He was stalling, he knew he was stalling. He could just type out Ryan’s number, he had it memorized. Or he could search his name in the contact bar…

_What if you're bothering him?_ It rang in his ears. But he _needed_ Ryan. He _needed_ to hear his voice. 

He clicked on the contact, he bit his lip… Should he?

“Fuck it.”

He reached for the call button, but just as his finger hovered over the screen his phone began to ring. 

Typically, when he would get calls from unfamiliar numbers, he would just let them go to voicemail, but anything that could keep him from making this call was a blessing.

“This is Shane Madej.”

“Mr. Madej, how are you doing this evening?” He knew that voice, he knew he knew that voice, but the name and face were distant. 

“I’m sorry, who’s this?”

A hearty chuckle, “Mr. Madej, I’d say my name is unimportant, but I believe you might already know it. This is Andrew Ilnyckyj, we’ve met once before,” He paused, the smirk evident in his voice, “I’m sure you remember.”

Was the room always this cold? Shane’s fingers were like ice as he stood, dumbfounded, in the center of his room, “Unfortunately.”

“Oh, don't be like that!” The sound of Andrew taking a drag from a cigarette just barely audible, “Besides… We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

“We?” 

There was a pause on the other end, a thoughtful pause, “Mhm, _we_. You, me... and Ryan Bergara.”

Shane’s stomach dropped like he was falling from Disney's Tower of Terror. 

“He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he?”

“What the fuck have you done to him?” He growled, his left hand digging painfully into his leg as he tried to steady himself.

“Oh, Shane, no! I wouldn’t dream of hurting a hair on his precious little head.”

Shane didn’t like this, he didn’t like this distance. He didn’t like the way the world was spinning out of his control. He had never been a ‘control freak,’ but that didn’t mean he liked being unable to alter the events at hand. He was too removed from the situation, just a pawn on the board unable to dictate which space he would reach next.

“What do you want, Ilnyckyj.”

“Oh, that’s cute…” Andrew grinned, a shit-eating grin Shane was sure. “You both do that when you’re trying to get down to business. Cut out formalities and whatnot and jump to the good stuff!”

Shane was positive he could vibrate with rage. The man siting–well, he could be standing, but Andrew seemed like a lounging kind of villain–mocking him over the phone was the conductor of this scheme. He had sent them out to ‘intimidate’ Habersberger, and there was no way he couldn’t have known how the events would go down. 

“You knew it didn’t you? How paranoid Keith would be, how quickly he’d spring into action?”

"I'm no psychic… _but_ I may have made an educated guess. He’s always had a heavy trigger finger... Oh, and it helps when you tell people to keep watch. Scattering the body in the woods? Clever.”

“You son of a–”

“Now, now! That’s no way to talk to your friend, Madej! Really you should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you!?” Shane scoffed, bitter and gravely in his throat. “ _You’re_ the reason a man is dead!”  


The laugh was hearty and rich like French hot chocolate, “I didn’t lay a finger on him! You’re the one who watched the light drain from his eyes, or are you forgeting?”

“At _your_ orders,” Shane growled, saliva clung to the corners of his mouth like a ravenous dog.

“Shane, Shane, Shane… I was only helping you experiment with your most primal urges,” another hiss as he breathed in the nicotine, “no sane man goes into criminal law. You have to be a special kind of sick to do that. You have to get off on violence to not let those images phase you.” The last sentence a hushed, near flirtatious whisper.

Shane shuddered, a light tingling sensation spreading to his fingers, “Fuck you.” He meant for the words to be degrading, harsh, and still somehow nonchalant. His voice, however, had different plans. The phrase tumbled from his tongue with a squeak, a shaky hitch in his voice as the nerves once again enveloped him.

“Perhaps when my schedule’s cleared some,” a careless snicker, “but right now I have a proposal for you, Mr. Madej… We need information–”

“No,” Shane wheezed, shaking his head fruitlessly.

“Please, let me finish–”

“No. No! Fuck you, goddammit! Leave me the hell alone, I’ve already bloodied my hands enough for you.” Shane couldn’t bear another snarky snigger or condescending comment, so, instead, he hung up, shut his phone off completely and headed to the kitchen.

He needed a drink.

 

* * *

 

**9:08 P.M.**

 

Shadows played across every surface. The only light was leaking from the TV that had been forgotten in the living room. It was muted, but its blue-tinted lights flickered from around the corner.

 

Ryan was seated on his haunches, resting his back against the wall. His elbows were placed firmly on his thighs, hands pressed together as if in prayer. His eyes stayed fixated on his target. 

He had a couple of plans, just in case something went unfavorably, but he hadn’t decided which way would be best to go about this.

 

The figure, a petite man, shifted in his sleep. His face was round, almost childlike, and his lips were parted delicately as he took in gentle, rhythmic breaths.

 

He didn’t want to waste another moment. He may be a well-built guy, but Ryan would prefer not to test his hand-to-hand combat skills.

He pushed himself off the wall, rolling his shoulders as he inched towards the figure.

 

The sleeping man was curled on the left side of the bed, close to Ryan. 

A small decorative pillow, rough in texture, lay beside him, and  Ryan steadily picked it up.

The man let a small snore tickle his throat, but didn’t stir further.

 

Ryan flared his nostrils, teeth grated, and brows furrowed in concentration. He held the pillow in his right hand, firmly, his left splayed just above the other man’s chest, in case he lurched forward.

“Sorry, man,” and then he was pressing down. His body shook with the force, and his victim’s eyes shot open.

 

Zach, Ryan believed his name to be, had his hands buried beneath the covers, and as he twisted to free them–and himself in general–he grew more exhausted. 

His eyes held a type of fear Ryan had never seen in real life. His pupils were dilated, so big and innocent as they desperately searched for a savior… and then they stopped. They blinked twice like it would somehow change this narrative before they softened into a defeated acceptance. 

Lips a light shade of purple as Zach choked out a pitiful “P-please,” and then his body was limp in Ryan’s arms.

 

He waited an extra few minutes, for assurance, before letting go.   
  
Ryan sighed, sleepily, rearranging Zach to look more natural. He smoothed out the pale man’s hair, turning the body slightly onto his–it’s? did dead bodies still get pronouns–side, hoping the position looked natural.

He fluffed the pillows and smoothed out the sheets.

Last Friday, Ryan had expected to be spending the entirety of this week binge watching–rewatching, really–‘Parks and Recreation,’ not… cleaning up his _second_ murder scene, yet here he was. 

He had done a mighty fine job, in his opinion. He had left no apparent evidence, and if his research had helped with anything, it was finding the right gear to wear when… _silencing people_. 

Ryan nodded at the scene he was leaving behind, leaving the door cracked open just the slightest like he had found it. 

His heart rasped against his ribcage, furiously. It was like getting off a rollercoaster, the hardest part was always the begging but then once it's done you feel… _euphoric_.

* * *

 

**7:35 A.M.**

 

Shane liked to take his mornings slow. He enjoyed a large cup of black coffee, the ambiance of CNN playing as he cooked, and the smell of ‘Febreze AIR Fresh-Cut Pine.’

 

It was only Wednesday, just barely halfway through the week, but having made it here… relatively unscathed, filled him with some hope. _Some_ determination. 

 

Shane tossed his dirty dishes into the sink, running a hand through his bedhead-messy locks. 

He turned towards the door, grabbing the key for his mailbox. 

 

The early air was frigid, flashes of last night and his walk–truly a new form of the walk of shame–up the driveway taunting his mildly optimistic morning mood.

 

He tried to shake it off as he clicked open the box. The pile was small, as to be expected on a Wednesday, but sitting atop the typical bills and ads was a large manila envelope. 

Shane nudged the mailbox door closed, treading slowly back to his apartment.

 

He discarded the usual suspects on his pass bar, fixating only on this unmarked package. 

Even his address was nowhere to be found, and a suspicious quirk of the brow couldn’t be helped.

 

He tore open the paper and pulled out a stack of photos.

They were all black and white, a tad blurry here or there, but unmistakably… of him.

His likeness was captured well, despite the shadows clearly surrounding him, but it wasn’t the masterful techniques that caught Shane’s attention. It was the location.

 

Photographed was Shane Madej, not even a full day younger than he was now, standing, hand on the door handle, in front of Keith Habersberger’s house. The next was of him ducking as he stepped past the caution tape and into that cursed house.

He continued flicking through, each one a slightly different closeness on his figure. It was undeniably him. He stopped at the last photo, a sticky note pressed firmly in place, reading,

“ _Shane Madej, I told you: I have a proposal for you. Call me_.”

 

The burning across his body was excruciating, he was standing before a higher power and his actions were being judged… He could no longer repent, no matter how badly he longed to. 

The devil wanted him, and even the most remorseful and merciful of angels had turned away.

 

He had asked to play with fire, and now he was getting burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic in a while, so I hope you all enjoy it!  
> I'll try to update at least every week, but because I've started college classes it might get a bit hectic here and there!
> 
> My Tumblr handle is @buzzzfeeedunsolved
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~ Kiki


	7. "Night Night" and "Legs"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Honestly, your loyalty to one another is endearing but it’s gonna get you two in trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry this is late!
> 
> I was crazy slammed with exams and projects, but uhhh the plus-side: For one of my projects I made a video in the style of Ruining History and tweeted The Boys, and they liked it, and Shane responded to it! (I can die happy now, lmao)
> 
> Hopefully, you like this chapter? It's in a different style than how I typically write, so bear with me!
> 
> Thank you all for the love and support! <333

He couldn’t recall the exact way he had decided upon his calling card, he couldn’t remember a precise date for when he began thinking about it. It was just some time at the beginning of last week, while work was slow, that he decided it was worth the risks.

 

Ryan had always had an innate fascination with crime, specifically with murder. He knew it wasn’t normal or healthy, in all honesty, but it was there. He read about serial killers when he was in high school like most teens read cliche YA novels.

 

He decided to direct this… dare he say, _obsession_ … from a hobby to a passion. Focusing on defensive criminal law led Ryan to hook himself–less guiltily–onto any debatably twisted case he could get his hands on. Besides, that career path was for the good of others… Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

 

But now, years after his dive into the cruelty of man, he found himself at the center of it. 

 

Still, he wasn’t quite sure when this haunting seed began to grow in his subconscious or why the thought first tumbled into his head. All he knew was that he had been done being a puppet. If he was being forced to slaughter, it was going to be on _his_ terms, or as on his terms as it could be.

 

And if taking control–if having some… _fun_ … with this whole thing–would ease some of the suffocating guilt, then who was he not to try it?

 

He knew his logic was off, he knew that ‘personalizing’ his techniques wouldn't waver his paranoia, but sue him–or arrest him, really, his inner monologue jested–for wanting to be one of the nameless, elusive killers he was so intrigued by.

 

If crime was his only option, then he would make the most of it. It’s not like he _chose_ to do this anyway, he internally defended. He hadn’t done this for himself, so it wouldn’t _really_ hurt if he… spiced things up… right?

 

He couldn’t remember when the idea first took root, but he knew when he made the decision to act on it. 

 

He had been on his way home but took a quick detour to the closest grocery store. He had told himself _not_ to go. He had told himself it was a _bad idea_ to play this game, this battle of logic and hubris, yet there he found himself. Pacing the isles as he debated _what_ to use.

 

He had fixed himself guidelines, instructions almost, on what to do whenever he was ‘working.’ He’d go at night, late, typically between 1-3 A.M., unless specifically instructed otherwise. 

 

He’d gotten lucky with the first target… Zach? He expected a fight, he expected the man to be awake, but the assortment of booze and junk food wrote the narrative itself: lightweight, young adult male overdoes it on the alcohol and crashes early.

 

He couldn't be that careless again, so, he now went late. He’d find the victim’s bedroom, and, more often than not, smother them.

 

If they fought back, or, god forbid, overpowered Ryan, he did have a gun. Silencer provided by Andrew and Satan–that’s what he was calling the nameless, faceless voice.

 

That was his ‘recipe for disaster,’ until he stood, thoughtful and anxious, between the dreary isles of that store.

 

He thought there'd be some… poeticism in using some kind of nighttime paraphernalia.

 

But what?

 

His hand, gloved, of course, had brushed over the different types of bedding, the slippers, the robes, the–

 

_Ring, ring! Ring, ring!_

 

“Ryan Bergara.” He had stated, half expecting Satan to be on the line.

 

“Ryan! Hey, is this a bad time?” Shane’s voice, tinny over the phone, had inquired.

 

“Uh, no, bud. What’s up?” Ryan had kept an idle gaze on the different decorative pillows, all gleaming with little graphics and texts.

 

“An old colleague of mine is in town Friday, he needs some help… analyzing his most recent case, and asked for my assistance. So, I gotta come in late, probably a little while afternoon.”

 

“Oh, yeah, that’s no problem,” a soft silence fell between them until Ryan replayed Shane’s words in his head, “Who is it?”

 

He had faltered, “What?”

 

“The colleague… the one you’re meeting, who is it?” Ryan had tried to project the smile into his voice, but the confusion in Shane’s left needles of doubt poking the back of his mind.

 

“TJ Marchbank.”

 

“I love TJ!” Ryan had grinned, more loosely, “Tell him I’m wishing him luck on the case.”

 

“Will do…”

 

Ryan had wanted to say something else, he wasn’t sure what. That seemed to be happening a lot between them recently. One of them would always open their mouth to say _something,_ but as suddenly as the desire arrived it would vanish. Leaving them gaping like frogs in search for flies.

 

“Well… ‘Night, Shane.”

 

Shane had let out a gentle, melodic laugh, “Night night, Ry. Sleep well.” 

 

Ryan couldn’t help the small, bashful grin that slipped onto his lips, “Night, night.”

 

A small _beep, beep_ had signaled Shane hanging up, and Ryan let his arm fall, eyes with it. His gaze had landed on the bottom shelf of the display.

 

Pale blue sleep masks with white piping around the edges lined the wall. Across the eyes, in white, cursive font read the words, “night, night.”

 

Yes, Ryan had grinned, those would do nicely. 

 

And they were. A theatric that the media couldn’t get enough of!

 

So, perhaps he couldn’t recall when he first got the inspiration, but each time he gently lay the sleeping mask across the victims’ eyes–which, to be fair, he’d only been doing for the past four days, his agreement with Satan only started a little over a week ago, after all–he couldn’t help the buzz it offered.

 

It wasn’t as creepy as it sounded, Ryan had assured himself. He was doing this to keep Shane, and himself, obviously, out of trouble. This little dramatic flair was to allow himself some control, the small homage to his friend was coincidental… _totally_. It had nothing to do with the fact he could practically hear the echo of Shane’s adoring chirp of “night, night.” 

 

But that didn’t matter! It didn’t matter because no one knew it was him–aside from Satan who was keeping to a strict schedule of sending him a target every other if not every day. 

 

Ryan had been keeping tags on any suspicion from the cops, and, aside from the fact that they knew they were dealing with a serial killer, they had learned nothing. Honestly, his whole trademark was probably for the best! Ryan had driven the majority of the force away from Keith’s death and onto the deaths of… many others. Seven? If he wasn’t mistaken?

 

Wow… Seven was… that was seven _lives_. 

 

A wave of nausea hit him, and he stepped back. A deep-rooted nagging feeling wormed in the pit of his stomach. His hairs standing on end.

 

Ryan frowned eyes flickering over the sleeping figure, it was Friday morning. He figured close to 2:30 A.M., but he didn’t have a way to check, he refused to risk his phone being trackable. The room was silent, the only sound was the gentle snores from the man curled before him.

 

He was tall, with strawberry blonde hair and a near ginger beard. He was bundled beneath a pile of thick blankets, his face gentle and angelic in this dreamer’s state.

 

Whatever, it didn’t… _it didn’t fucking matter_ , he had to get this done. 

 

Ryan shook his head, trying to push the questions of morality from his mind, and he picked up the pillow beside the figure. He hovered a hand just above the man’s chest to catch him when he inevitably lunged forward to escape the vice grip trapping him.

 

He took a deep breath and slammed the pillow down. 

 

The man wriggled underneath him. His eyes were a teal, speckles of blue and green searching for an escape. His sandy brows furrowed together, desperately, a plead for humanity in his attacker. 

 

The man–Ryan had stopped learning their full names, just their last, it made it easier to feel apathetic towards the whole thing–Fulmer was stronger than most of his victims. He pounded at Ryan’s wrists, and Ryan knew they’d leave bruises once the whole ordeal was done with.

 

Fulmer tried nipping at the pillow, perhaps hoping to tear it from Ryan’s hands, and although he didn’t have that much luck he did manage to make it slip just a bit; just enough for Fulmer to take in a big breath of air, enough to make this harder. 

 

Ryan ditched the pillow, settling instead for straddling the man and gripping his throat like it was a lifeline… which, in a way, it was. Just not a lifeline for Ryan. 

 

“P-Please….” He gasped, his face contorting in pain, lips dusted in a shade of blue. “My wife… just had a baby…” 

 

_What_? 

 

Ryan’s shoulders drooped, the stiffness of his grasp slipping.

 

_What the fuck was he doing?_

 

He didn’t like this. He didn’t fucking like this!

 

He had killed seven people!

 

_Seven_?! 

 

_In two weeks!_

 

He didn’t know who any of them were, what they had done to ‘warrant’ an execution, or if they had had families. Well, he didn’t use to know, but here in his hands, at _his_ mercy was a _father_ , a _husband_. He had a baby! He couldn’t… he couldn’t let a kid grow up fatherless, a wife age widowed. But… didn’t he have to? It was Ryan or this man. Kill or face Satan’s wrath… And, honestly, could it be _that_ hard to hide the guilt from his mind? He’d been successful at doing it so far!

 

There’s a sweet bliss in disassociation. A sweet bliss in selective ignorance.

 

Ryan had been prating it since his anxiety attacks began. He’d pinpoint a situation, a factor, a cause that set him on edge and would ignore it. He’d practiced compartmentalizing it, convincing himself whatever it was, was _nothing_. He had to or… Or he’d never be able to function. 

 

He did it that Sunday night two weeks ago, long enough that he’d been able to ensure they were in the clear. He did it when Satan called him the first time, and the second, and the third.

 

He did it when he saw the eyes of his victims flash, frenzied and pathetic, their fingers clawing limply at his biceps.

 

He did it because _what other choice did he have?!_

 

He thought he’d feel something more about Keith. He thought he'd feel… _something_.

 

Sure when it first happened he felt… shaken, overwhelmed and ill… because of his guilt, guilt only due to his fear of the consequences. He expected later to feel more genuine regret for taking a life, a sinking awareness of the inevitability of death, _something!_ But there was nothing, and here he was convincing himself this was for the best!

 

Besides the kid wouldn’t even be old enough to remember–NO! _No_!

 

He was going mental if he genuinely believed this was fine! Sure, being fascinated with crime was one thing, but being okay– _being comfortable_ with the feeling of taking someone’s life away was fucking psychotic!

 

It was fascinating– _no_ , not fascinating, it was… new… it was… psychologically intriguing to be on this side of things. But he needed to snap out of whatever strange fantasy land he was living in because killing people was insane! 

 

If he didn’t want to die how could he, in good conscience, be the death of others?!

 

He released Fulmer, the man’s breath ragged and face ghostly pale, and before he could fully come to, Ryan ran. He ran out the back door, he ran till his whole body was on the verge of collapse, he ran till his lungs were on fire, he ran till his eyes stung, he ran until he got to his car a few blocks away. He tore off the ski mask, threw it onto the passenger seat, and gasped.

 

They found him, the feelings of guilt and sorrow that he had been looking for. They found him and were making him pay.

 

Ryan’s hands shook, throat stuffed with cotton. 

 

They found him… and he was done playing God.

 

* * *

 

 

**5:30 A.M.**

 

He hated the driving, it was probably his least favorite part, which he knew made him sound… not great. It was just–it was the anticipation and anxiety. That feeling while waiting in line for a rollercoaster, but with actual life-ruining consequences.

 

He had his hair slicked back so it was out of his eyes, contacts in, dark sunglasses resting at the tip of his nose, and a black monochrome outfit. His hands adorned with black latex gloves, the leather ones didn’t allow them to be as useful. He needed them to be useful. 

 

He pulled over, parking in the alley of the warehouse. Offering a cautious glance at his surroundings, he unlocked his door and grabbed the heavy bag resting in the passenger’s seat.

 

His steps echoed, eerily, as he walked to the warehouse’s backdoor, knuckles tapping out three hardy, slow knocks that were quickly met with the unlocking of the door.

 

He glanced–almost wearily–around the room. He was spending too much time here, at least three times a week he was in this hell hole, late at night or early in the morning–he needed enough time to thoroughly get the job done.

 

The warehouse was dank, dusty, and cold. A single light, too bright to ever be acceptable, sat in the corner facing a stiff plastic chair that was laying on its back. Beside the light was a rolling workbench, a flat surface to easily transport tools or something to that extent. Two buff men, both in nondescript suits, stood facing the chair, which currently seated an unnamed man. He was bound, in a position that couldn’t be comfortable, to the seat. His mouth gagged with a thick piece of rope, and at the sight of a new figure, he gurgled what one could only assume to be a plea for help. His head rested awkwardly on the floor, a small trail of blood from his nose had dried sideways from the wait.

 

Shane turned to look over his shoulder, footsteps echoing from behind him, and smiled at the presence of a third man, the one who had opened the door, “Roberto, let the man speak!”

 

The short, muscular thug hastily made his way to their captive. He tore the rope from the hostage’s mouth, and the man blinked slowly.

 

His eyes were a pale blue, almost icy in the bright heat of the spotlight. His hair, what must’ve been a neat blonde quiff at one point, was unkempt and greasy. He scrunched his nose, jutting out his jaw and tilting up his head as if to look down on–or at least _at_ – Shane, “Fuck you, Asshole!”

 

Shane chuckled, a gravely sound that sounded almost foreign. Even to himself. He set the heavy bag atop the workbench and kept the goodies within it out of sight.

 

“Boys, if you could do me a favor… Set up like usual, yes?”

 

The trio grunted, indistinguishably. The two taller thugs who had been stationed beside the blonde man this whole time, tipped his chair up, holding it at an angle that didn’t quite let his feet hit the ground.

 

The blonde panted, anxiously, the grip on his binds tightening.

 

Roberto grinned, a look that seemed so innocent and yet… the left side of his mouth quirked up just a bit higher than the other, and his head tipped to the right, and his eyes darkened with amusement, and the whole combination in some unexplainable way could make anyone’s stomach churn. He inched nearer to Shane, his teeth catching the light, “Ready, Boss?”

 

Shane only nodded, “You know the order,” and with that, he was stepping closer, leisurely. He circled the chair a few times, just to observe, before stopping and dipping his head into the man–he couldn’t just keep calling him that, “What’s your name?”

 

_The man_ stayed silent, only gritting his teeth in response, and Shane rolled his eyes dramatically. He leaned back, not fully turning towards Roberto, “What’s his name?”

 

“Zack.”

 

Shane nodded, dipping his head so it matched _Zack_ ’s eyeline, “Listen, _Zackie,_  I don’t want to hurt you. Really! I don’t, but there are some people that reeeeeally want me to. So… We’re gonna play a game, yeah?!” 

 

_Silence_. Silence and spiteful glares.

 

“Great!” Shane clasped his hands together, “I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them to the best of your ability! If you don’t… well… We’re gonna have a problem–actually… _you’re_ going to have a problem! Got it?” Shane clicked his tongue, shaking his head with a patronizing kindness, “Zackie, baby, didn’t anyone tell you it’s rude not to look at those speaking to you?” Shane yanked the man’s head back by a fistful of hair, and he yelped. “Mmm, that’s what I like to hear.”

 

Zack flared his nostrils rapidly, it was a nervous tick Shane had grown to enjoy it, it was almost cute in a weird way, “ _Kiss my ass._ ”

 

The taller man rose back to his full height and snapped his fingers. He was bored with the silence in the room, he wanted _action._ Roberto wasted no time in complying to his request and raced to his side presenting a hammer. 

 

“Do you know why I had you sit all tied up to that chair?” Shane didn’t wait for a response this time, instead, he rolled up his sleeves, gingerly. “You see… I’ve been doing some research and I’ve found that, on average, it takes between 30 minutes to an hour for someone’s legs to fall asleep when in _that_ position.”

 

Zack’s brows raised, a questioning look in his eyes. He wiggled his foot just a bit in its binds and immediately winced at the sensation.

 

“I’m not lying…” Shane took the hammer from Roberto, “And as I’m sure you noticed it makes even the slightest contact… unbearable.” The brunet gave the pair holding the chair a subtle nod and they released their vice grips. Zack slammed full force onto the flats of his feet, biting his tongue to subdue the whine that pressed at the back of his throat.

 

“Now, Zackie… I’ve got some questions for you, and you’re not going to like what happens if you _don’t_ answer.” And before anyone could usher another word Shane brought the hammer, full force, down upon the blonde’s shins.

 

They never took too long to crack after the first blow… Shane didn’t give them that luxury.

 

* * *

 

**12:30 P.M.**

 

He had made up his mind. 

 

The sound of Fulmer’s breathless pleads taunted him. It’d been just earlier this morning, but every other thought was a reminder of the blood on his hands.

 

_Maybe a bagel would be nice for breakfast? I wonder if Keith liked bagels?_

 

And then he’d be stuck remembering the sound of gunshots, and metal on bone, and blood on plastic, and whimpers through pillows.

 

He had allowed the situation to be an excuse. The horrible events he was controlling were being forced upon him! Which… was _true_ , but! _But_ he was compliant. He should’ve fought back! A good man would… and Ryan wanted to be a good man, he _used_ to be a good man.

 

He chewed mindlessly on the end of his pencil. Satan would call any minute now and ask why the job was unsuccessful. He’d threaten Ryan. He’d remind him that he wasn’t the only assassin–if Ryan could even call himself that–he had ties to. But he had made up his mind.

 

_He had_.

 

When his phone rang, ten minutes after his spiraling thoughts started up, he took a deep breath, waited for the third ring, and answered.

 

“Bergara! _What the fuck_?! Fulmer’s spoken to the authorities already. He’s on 24/7 watch now! With that kinda protection, who knows what he could spill?”

 

“I quit.” A heavy silence fell over the line. Ryan’s throat seemed to be coated in a corn syrup that he couldn’t quite swallow. His fingers twitched anxiously.

 

“ _Excuse me_.” 

 

“They have families, did you know that?”

 

Satan snorted, “Ned couldn’t stop talking about his wife long enough to be murdered, huh?” 

 

“You… You knew about that? About–” Ryan cut himself off. If Satan didn’t already know about Fulmer’s kid, he didn’t want to be the one to cue him in.

 

“About what? The baby? Pff, like that makes a difference,” he tutted, “Bergara, anyone ever tell you it’s a kill or be killed world? Because, funnily enough, that’s exactly the kinda show I’m runnin’.”

 

“Then set your stage, but count me out! I’m done. I didn’t agree to _this_ and you know it.”

 

“You agreed to “anything,” your words, not mine.” 

 

“And you’ve kept every word you’ve made? You deal in corruption and deception. I’d say you can’t tell your name without it being a lie, but you prefer just not to say it at all.”

 

“Tread lightly, Bergara, you’re out of your depth.”

 

“Oh, honey, I can swim like a pro. That’s the least of my concerns.” Ryan ran a hand through his hair, eyes glaring at nothing in particular.

 

Satan hummed thoughtfully, “You really want war? You want my other cohorts to chase you down?” The rhythmic tapping of his nails against his desk just barely filtered over the line, “They’ll be a lot less kind than “Night Night”–or whatever other bullshit titles the media has assigned you–ever was.”

 

“D’you know the reason why I’ve never been caught? Why I’ve been able to commit seven murders in two weeks flawlessly?” The very words made an acidic gurgle creep up Ryan’s throat, but he swallowed it down in favor of a more sour growl, “Because I watch my fucking back. Bring your men. Bring your armies. I’ll be ready.” He moved to hang up, to drop the phone like a mic after a rap battle, but he was stopped by whispers of words. 

 

The sound of a familiar voice trickling over the line, tinny, and clearly coming from another device’s recording.

 

_“You knew it didn’t you? How paranoid Keith would be, how quickly he’d spring into action?”_

 

Ryan would recognize that voice anywhere! It trended the line between gruff and melodic, just a tad too gentle to be “deep,” and it held a weariness that was all too familiar as of late.

 

_“It’s hard to know the future… but I may have made an educated guess. He’s always had a heavy trigger finger... Oh, and it helps when you tell people to keep watch. Scattering the body in the woods? Clever.”_ _Andrew_. His monotonous joy overwhelmingly apparent.

 

_ “You son of a–” _

 

“ _Now, now! That’s no way to talk to your friend, Madej! Really you should be thanking me.”_

 

_“Thanking you!? You’re the reason a man is dead!”_ Shane’s voice sounded defeated, sardonic, and a bit fuzzed out from the white noise of the phone.  


 

_ “I didn’t lay a finger on him! You’re the one who watched the light drain from his eyes.” _

 

“ _At your orders_.” 

 

Ryan clenched his fist in defeat, a vice grip on his pencil. He knew it well enough… that was all a prosecutor would need to lock Shane up, most likely for close to twenty-five years. They were lawyers for fucks sake, Shane should’ve watched his tongue!

 

“What about Andrew?”

 

“What about him?” 

 

“You willing to give him up for Shane?”

 

A laugh, a genuine, wince-inducing laugh bellowed from the speaker, “Shane? For Andrew? Oh, aren’t you cute!” He cackled again before taking a deep inhale around his cigar, “You think that’s the only way I can hand this in?” Exhale, “No, no…. I can distort it, I can clear Andrew’s tracks–But,” He interrupted himself, caught up in his own scheme, “I know what you’re thinking: Shane’s not an idiot, he’ll just cut a deal to put the blame on us, ‘the bad guys’!” Satan mocked the last words, clearly pleased with himself, “Mmm, but, Honey, if I threaten to whisper a word about you, about your involvement in my whole _business_ he’ll close that pretty mouth of his before you can bat an eye. Honestly, your loyalty to one another is _endearing_ but it’s gonna get you two in trouble.”

 

Under other circumstances, Ryan’s chest would’ve most likely spread with a happy, hopeless warmth from just the idea that his admiration and loyalty wasn’t one-sided. Unfortunately, however, these weren't other circumstances, and instead, he was enveloped in a hot rage. 

 

Satan was playing them like a fucking game of chess, and they were only left with one another. A king and queen. 

 

“So what do you want?”

 

“That’s my good boy,” He cooed.

 

The pencil and Ryan’s patience snapped, a full-bodied wince taking over.

 

“Compliance. I want compliance. We still have people to mark off our list.”

 

“ _Your list_.” It was a soft hiss, a gentle tap on the ice to see where Satan’s temper stood.

 

“Nevertheless, there are people that _you_ need to deal with.”

* * *

 

 

**12:58 P.M.**

 

Shane’s strides were lethargic. These strenuous early mornings and late nights were taking a toll on him, not to mention trying to hide the whole thing from Ryan was _exhausting_.

 

He neared the door to their office and could hear Ryan’s voice growling savagely, “Fine. When, who?”

 

Shane took cautious steps into the room, not meeting Ryan’s eyes. He wanted to give him space, seeing as how he was the one _actually_ working.

 

Ryan nodded, “That early? Yeah, sure… You’ll send me the rest of the details? Yes, I want _all_ of them this time.” The shorter man licked his lower lip, placing a broken pencil into his pencil holder.

 

Shane couldn’t help but study his partner.

 

Ryan’s hair was immaculate, as per usual, but his hairline was decorated with beads of sweat. His eyes were wide, wild. He seemed tense, and Shane couldn’t help but feel responsible for that.

 

He knew that was illogical, the cops weren’t prying into the Habersberger case much anymore. Norris was still fixated on it, but from what he heard, when stopping by the station, she was getting nowhere.

 

More so he’d be on the look for any alarm bells about his work. Nothing much aside from a few ex-mobsters reporting the activity of a new criminal “Legs.” He thought the title was all too fitting, it was bestowed upon him due to his leg based torture methods, but if Ryan knew! Oh, if Ryan knew he’d tell the whole underground to change it to “Long Legs.”

 

Ryan exhaled loudly, setting his phone face down onto his desk. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, “Sorry about that… How was meeting TJ?”

 

Shane smiled, tight-lipped and caught off guard, “Oh! It was productive. He says… hi.”

 

Ryan smiled gently, a smile that, for the first time in what felt like years, reached his eyes. He nodded gratefully before turning back to his computer screen.

 

Shane felt a small shock run up his spine. He missed Ryan, _happy Ryan_. He missed making him laugh and smile. He missed the way they could just go out for the night and get a drink or stay in and watch shitty horror films.

 

Shane bit his lip, “Wanna get drinks tonight?”

 

He didn’t look away from the computer, just shrugged, “Sure, why not.”

 

Shane nodded, rolling his shoulders as if it would let the subtle disappointment of _not_ _getting his point across_ roll away, too. He wanted Ryan to pick up on the ‘this is our first time hanging out since we killed a guy’ vibes, but if Ryan didn’t notice or care… that was… fine. He just wanted them to okay, to be normal. He didn't like the distance that had grown between them. Maybe he should just pretend everything was fine? So, Shane just smiled, he was happy with where they were. He was! He was…

“Okay, cool… Wanna meet at the bar by my house? At 7?”

 

“Let’s make it 8, I have some business to attend to earlier.”

 

“Perfect.” 

 

See? Everything was going to be fine.


	8. One Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He headed towards the overgrown park nearby, and charged like his life depended on it…
> 
> Because this time... it just might.

**7:48 P.M.**

 

The air stung his skin, nose tinted with a harsh pink. His eyes burned, the chilled wind glazing them over. He clutched his biceps in a futile attempt to keep warm, hands adorned in their usual black leather gloves. The sun had just dipped under the horizon, orange streaks intertwining like threads of a spiderweb across the greying sky. The last glimpse of light only reminding him further of how odd this was… being out early like _this,_ head-to-toe in black, the ski mask tucked in his back pocket.

 

Satan wanted this done fast, before 9 P.M., he wanted to know Ryan was as submissive as he seemed. He wanted to push him, to watch him squirm. He wanted to force him to do whatever he said _however_ he said it. He also wanted something this guy had. A USB with some ‘valuable’ material on it.

 

Ryan tossed a glance over his shoulder, the small one-way street abandoned. He shook his head, almost mournfully, and pulled the mask on. 

 

_Eugene Lee Yang: 32, 6ft, single, owns two dogs and lives alone._

 

That was his target. 

 

Ryan didn’t have as much of a plan as he would’ve liked, but to be fair there was only so much he could do with these new restrictions. He looked up the house’s landscaping on google maps and used the local blueprint records to find the layout. He knew what to do to get in, it was just the variable of the victim that made his heart thunder a bit more than it normally did. An adrenaline rush that was guilty and nauseating and _scared_.

 

He pulled a screwdriver from his pants’ pocket and walked to a small window placed on the right side of the house. He figured, from what the blueprints depicted, that it would lead to the bathroom–it was the smallest room in the house and had plumbing, so the chances seemed good. 

 

Ryan wedged the flat head of the tool beneath the window’s seam, digging in until it was secure and slamming down. The window popped up with a soft _screeeeeech._

 

He held his breath, waiting, _sickly,_ for any sign of alarm from within the house but none came. He let the heavy sigh filter from his clenched teeth before sliding the window up into a sizable opening. He wormed his way in and, with cautious steps, made his way blindly towards the door. The lights were off and dusk’s evening glow was hardly enough to see with. 

 

Ryan rubbed his hands together to calm his nerves, but the friction of the gloves emitted a stiff whine that only tensed his muscles further. His lungs ached, heart beating fast enough to bruise the surrounding organs. A heat found itself across his face, specifically in the philtrum. A dappling of cold sweat decorated his temples and the curve of his cupids bow. His hairs stood on end, and he knew–on a primal level–that he was in danger.

 

He often felt unwell during missions, but nowhere near this viscerally concerned.

 

Ryan bit his lip, fists clenched and ready to attack. He stepped into the shadowy hallway, the house _silent_. 

 

He took another step into the corridor, to his right, just too far to peer into, was an archway. Light seeped in from its opening, a soft warm glow that pooled into the hall and lit up the left wall. Past the archway sat a guest room, the door propped open to reveal its emptiness. 

 

Ryan inched closer and peered into the lit room, his gaze falling upon a simple and quaint parlor. A brown couch was pressed up against an off-white wall, which had been claimed by a pair of dogs. Both small, sleepy balls of fur on the cushions. The darker of the two, his coat shaggy and breed unidentifiable, lay with his eyes fixed on the silent TV while the other, a reddish chihuahua, peacefully napped.

 

Ryan pulled back, his heart beating a tad faster. He planned for this, he knew about the dogs but… it was all _so much_. He grabbed a few treats from his back pocket and tossed them just in front of the hallway, making sure he was out of sight.

 

The soft whine of curiosity and the padding of two pairs of paws signaled his plan’s success. The chihuahua sniffed the kibble timidly, her counterpart immediately taking a piece into his mouth. He crunched, happily, and Ryan’s shoulders slumped with relief. His back hitting the wall.

 

_Shit_. He shouldn’t have done that.

 

The mangier dog ceased his chomps, and stepped forward, eyes flickering to Ryan’s. His ears perked up, eyes widening as he decided on his plan of action.

 

_Shit_!

 

The dog growled, low and possessive.

 

“Pesto!” The voice was tired, clearly used to the dog’s outbursts.

 

The peachy chihuahua, however, seemed caught between her fight and flight instincts. She glanced towards her shaggy partner and, finally, decided to join him, yipping out an alarm signal to their unknowing owner.

 

“Emma?” Eugene, Ryan assumed the voice belonged to, seemed to catch on at the sound of the clearly less rowdy dog’s cries. “What is it, guys?” 

 

Fuck, fuck, no, don't come closer! Ryan needed a plan _now_. 

 

He patted himself down, did he have anything he could use?

 

All that was on him was a handful of treats, his screwdriver, and… his gun. He pulled it from his waistband, the cold metal glinting in the light. He didn’t want to shoot the man, that was for last resorts! But, to be fair, this was looking pretty ‘last resort,’ still, that didn’t take care of the dogs, and he was not going to shoot two helpless animals just because they were trying to protect their owner. 

 

Ryan bit his lip harder, what if… what if he distracted them? He didn’t have anything left though, the treats only worked short distance; they weren’t large enough to make a sound on their own. Ryan ran a weary hand over his face, eyes fixed on the heavy death machine in his hands. He furrowed his brows, thoughtfully. 

 

Was that really his only option? Ryan shook his head, he didn’t… he didn’t want to do that! 

 

He turned his head towards the wall, towards a small hanging picture frame, and, with a prayer to any power above, he willed himself to see an answer in his reflection.

 

“Emma, Pesto, shhh. It’s okay…” 

 

Ryan could make out the shadow of Eugene on the wall across from him, the taller man was bending down to… examine the treats? 

 

Ryan inhaled deeply and, with no second thought, yanked the picture off its hook and chucked it into the guest room. The frame hit the wall and echoed a loud _thud_. The picture’s glass splintering across the lament floor.

 

The dogs charged in the direction of the new commotion, ignoring the sweaty, pale man intruding on their owner’s land. 

 

The target shook his head, trailing after his pups. He wasn’t even fully over the threshold to the guest room when Ryan lifted his gun and pressed it firmly between the man’s shoulder blades, “I’m going to need you to shut that door.”

* * *

 

**7:58 P.M.**

 

He was early. He told himself to just stay home, to be _fashionably_ late or something of the sort, but he didn’t have the drive. He wanted to see Ryan. He wanted to see Ryan’s smile.

 

Especially after work today. Zack had been so upsetting. A pretty man with… _less_ than pretty language on his lips, which, to be fair, Shane was equally guilty of, but he needed his clients – he preferred that to victims, it’s not like he was _killing_ them. Besides their interactions were practically that of business negotiations, a simple exchange: they give him information and he gives them mercy – to be cooperative. 

 

Shane had already downed a shot and now sat, head in hand, nursing a cheap whiskey. His eyes were glued to the clock, counting the minutes by. 

 

It was just past 8 now, and he couldn’t help but feel unnerved. The howling of cop sirens speeding past the bar sent chills down Shane’s back. Every sign of law enforcement did these days. Stepping into the police station to help his clients sent him into a frenzy, but he had remained passably calm. Besides, he had Holly. 

 

She was charming as ever, eyes bright and smile brighter. They had always been civil with one another, and if he brought her a hazelnut coffee then perhaps she might look the other way as he glanced over her case file or asked less specific questions.

 

Similarly, he would give her a heads up when his rivals were making a good case and, on the rare occasion, he’d even let go clients who were truly bad in Holly’s eyes. She was a good cop after all.

 

It might be unethical, but Ryan had Tinsley so Shane got Horsley. 

 

He had been using this connection to keep watch on his reputation and general commotion regarding the mob. He had done a good job at keeping his name from the paper, but that didn’t save him from worry. 

 

He had told Andrew that he wouldn’t kill anyone, didn’t matter who or why it was off limits. But with that kind of decision, he was opening himself up to being caught. It could happen whenever his victims felt safe, now or in a year… And it chilled him to the bone. A blanket of nerves weighing him down.

 

Shane ran a hand through his hair, his eyes meeting the bartender’s. She was short, thick glasses slipping down her nose. Her dark chestnut locks were curled loosely, framing the neckline of her black sweetheart dress. 

 

“You doin’ okay, man?” She smiled, pouring a large Blue Moon for a customer at the end of the bar.

 

Shane shrugged, lethargically, “I’ve been better…” 

 

She frowned, sympathetically, her red pout straightening into a thin line. She slid the drink to the young, frat-boy-looking patron before turning back to Shane. She wrung her hands out on the tattered rag. “What’s got ya’ down?”

 

“…Work,” Shane settled on, which wasn’t totally untrue. Work had caused this whole mess.

 

“I’m sorry to hear that, what do you do…”

 

“Shane and your name is?”

 

“Kristin.” She smiled, brightly.

 

“Okay, Kristin… uh, I’m a criminal defense lawyer.”

 

“Oh!” She nodded, brows raised with an innocent surprise. Business was slow this early, so she made her way over to Shane, perching her forearms against the edge of the bar. “You wouldn’t happen to be working on anything that has to do with “Night, Night,” would ya?”

 

“Sorry, I don't know much about his whole,” He waved his hand nonsensically, “ _deal_.”

 

“He popped out of nowhere!” She picked her rag back up, running down the area of the bar a pair of women had just left, “Apparently he’s killed an estimated 6 people in a little over a week, he attempted to attack again last night, but he let his victim go. Just… I don’t know… had mercy on him!” 

 

“So, where’d the nom de plume come from?”

 

Kristin stopped her wiping, a grin breaking out across her face, “That’s the most interesting part! He always smothers his victims in the middle of the night, and he just started playing up the bit by leaving behind these sleep mask embroidered with the phrase ‘night, night.’ Now, obviously I don’t condone murder–or crime in anyway–but wow, that’s a way to stage a scene!”

 

“Mhm… almost _poetic_ … in a sick kinda way,” Shane sipped his whiskey, “Who’re the victims? Any patterns?”

 

Kristin gestured for Shane to wait a moment, her kitten heels clicking against the tile as she crossed to the other end of the bar. She reemerged with a newspaper, a bit tattered and smelling of stale beer, “Here. It has all the details!” She resumed cleaning and greeting customers, leaving Shane to skim the headline.

 

**“Night, Night Hasn’t Gone to Bed Yet”**

 

Shane rolled his eyes, shaking his head at the title. He lazily dragged his eyes across the page until he found paragraph three, bulleted like items on a grocery list were the names of the suspected and confirmed victims:

    * ****Zach Kornfeld – Tuesday, November 11th
    * ****Mark Celestino – Thursday, November 13th
    * ****Devon Joralman – Friday, November 14th
    * ****Garrick Bernard – Sunday, November 17th
    * ****Matt Real – Monday, November 18th
    * ****Kate Peterman – Tuesday, November 20th
    * ****Ned Fulmer – Attempted murder Friday, November 23rd



 

A hot guilt ran, like bugs crawling, over his body. He knew those names. They were the informants and rats that had crossed the mob. The ones who weren’t brave enough to speak out like Keith had… The cops had a file on them at the station. Shane couldn’t quite stop the shaky breath that left his lips, and instead resorted to downing the rest of his drink.

 

He glanced at his watch, ten past eight… 

 

He should text Ryan.

* * *

 

**8:15 P.M.**

 

He didn’t mean for it to go like that, he hadn’t envisioned this at all. 

 

Just after he pressed the gun to Eugene’s back, just as he took a step closer–asserting dominance or some psychological bullshit–the sound of sirens could be heard, faintly, in the distance.

 

Ryan had looked towards the window, that _couldn’t_ be a coincidence. He moved to bring his attention back to Eugene, but his face was met with the sharp impact of a fist.

 

A slip of the finger was followed by a loud _BANG,_ and the silence of the room was replaced with a shrill ringing.

 

Ryan stumbled onto the floor of the living room, the crunch of leftover dog treats only adding to the discombobulating buzz of the room. Eugene moved to kick Ryan, to ensure he had the upper hand, but the shorter man’s reflexes were faster. 

 

He swiped the taller man’s foot out from under him, pushing himself back into a sitting position. Ryan moved towards the gun, but a long leg kicked it underneath the coffee table.

 

Ryan growled, lunging underneath the piece of furniture. 

 

Eugene grabbed the back of Ryan’s collar, pulling him up before slamming his head into the corner of the coffee table.

 

Ryan hissed, gritting his teeth as he brought his arms up to brace himself before he could be brought back down onto the hardwood. 

 

He elbowed Eugene’s gut and marveled at the groan the man gave. 

 

Ryan dug a shaky hand back into his pocket–still trying to brace himself as he was thrown down yet again–and pulled out the screwdriver, slamming the head into Eugene’s wrist.

 

“FUCK!” Eugene yelped, cradling his hand, weakly.

 

Ryan pushed himself to his full height and delivered a swift uppercut to his target. A hook to the stomach, to the face, another uppercut, a sturdy kick to the solar plexus. 

 

Eugene collapsed into the crease of the couch, his face dripping, oozing hot, bright red. He panted, bubbles of saliva and blood foaming around his mouth. The same crimson coated his teeth and decorated the bridge of his nose. His left eye was framed by purple bruising, little lightning bolts of yellow interspersing the puffiness. The pattern of his breathless wheezes an almost definite sign of broken ribs.

 

Ryan didn’t turn away, his eyes staying fixed on the man. He dipped his hand beneath the table feeling around until his gloved fingers landed on the stiff metal.

 

Eugene snarled, a string of blood slipping down his chin, “You’re willing to do all this, risk your life and shit, for this guy–this _maniac?_ …I bet you don’t even know his name.”

 

The sirens were drawing closer, they’d be here in less than five minutes.

 

“He’s playing you, but I’m sure you figured that out by now.”

 

He was stalling, Ryan knew that now, but… If this man could give him some kind of information!

 

“What did he offer you? Fame? Fortune? _Fun_?” He offered a bloodied, lopsided smirk, eyelids covering half his gaze. He was a mess.

 

“Let’s just say this wasn’t my choice.” Ryan admitted, “I’m here because someone I l–” he bit his tongue, swallowing back his words, “because someone I _care_ about will be where you are, otherwise.”

 

Eugene hummed a hoarse, deathly sound.

 

The sirens were so very near, and Ryan’s teeth were chattering softly, his body _shaking_.

 

“You gonna kill me?”

 

Ryan nodded, a defeated sigh escaping him, “I’m sorry.”

 

Eugene shrugged, “Eh, it’s karma for the shit I’ve done, isn’t it?”

 

He stood up, steadying his arm out, “Who’s to say?”

 

“Make sure he gets caught… I know it’s suicide, but he’s already trying to get you killed. Might as well die for something you want.”

 

The shorter man nodded, somberly, cocking the gun. The sirens acting as his very own death march, a countdown. 

 

“I mean…” Eugene fixed his eyes in the direction of the sound, “who do you think called _them_?”

* * *

 

**8:55 P.M.**

 

Shane knew it was stupid, but… he had a right to be pissed. He had called Ryan ten times, texted him a dozen more, and nothing! Nothing! He felt like a teen being stood up on a date. This was ridiculous. Shane was a little past tipsy, but not so much so that he couldn’t sober out with some water and food. 

 

Kristin kept offering him apologetic smiles and free margaritas, “Listen, man, I don’t think your pal’s gonna show… Want me to call you a cab?”

 

Shane scowled, “No… He’ll be here! He just… He had something he had to do beforehand, he must still be caught up.” Yes, surely that was it! Right?

 

The bar was filling up now, most of the attendees college students that wanted a little bit of a buzz before heading off to the club or young adults who had barely survived the work week. They were all innocently swaying to the ambient music, a handful playing pool or darts. All young and unaware of the darkness draped over the bar.

 

Shane tried Ryan’s cell again, the familiar answering machine simply mocking him. “Ry, where are you? Call me back, please… I’m worried about you.” 

 

He looked back down at the list of victims, he had been reading the rest of the paper in a vain attempt to take his mind off Ryan, but he kept finding himself back on this list.

 

It just… Something was _off_ about it. The names? He knew why the names were familiar, but there was something else. Something he was missing… The times? No, they were relatively consistent, the article mentioned that. The only outlier was Zach, but he was obviously a trial and error target. Shane had his own, but… The dates?

They seemed so familiar… as if he knew them. 

 

Shane shook his head, trying to get the paranoia to waver, yet it hung above him like a dark storm cloud. Ominous and unpredictable, it could be a light storm or a torrential downpour. 

 

He opened his phone’s calendar. Why those dates? Why? 

 

Nothing… But he couldn’t shake it. 

 

This was the mobs doing, and it was going to hurt him…

 

It was just a matter of how.

* * *

 

**9:10 P.M.**

 

Papers, furniture, and files were sprawled across the house. Drawers open and ravaged.

 

It was here somewhere! 

 

It had to be!

 

Ryan dug through Eugene’s bedside tables, checked under his mattress, in his closet. Nothing. He was genuinely convinced he was going to hurl at this point, he had a minute or less to clear out! 

 

Fuck it. Fuck it, whatever! He wasn’t getting caught. Not like this!

 

Ryan walked back into the living room, Eugene’s corpse lying limply in the crook of the couch. He pulled the screwdriver from his stomach and headed for the back door. His heartbeat was so fast, too fast… That couldn’t be safe. He was going to give himself a heart attack. 

 

He passed through the dining room, the walls pale and picturesque, he moved towards the kitchen–the last room in the house–but paused. Sitting on a blue doily in the center of the dining table was a fishbowl, inside a little treasure chest… but no fish. 

 

…He couldn’t have…

 

Ryan plucked the decoration from the tank, prying it open. The hinges whined, softly.

 

There it was.

 

A blue USB with a white crest on the side. 

 

The sirens were close… 

Too close… and before he could process it he could hear a door caving in.

 

They–FUCK–they were at the fucking front door!

 

He threw the back door open and ran. His footsteps were uneven and sloppy. His head pounding in time with his heart.

 

He hopped the back fence and slid onto the pavement. He should be out of sight this way… Right? 

 

His footsteps thumped against the pavement. He couldn’t stop. It didn’t matter how badly his thighs burned, it didn’t matter if the arches of his feet throbbed.

 

He couldn’t stop.

 

He turned the corner, eyes blinded by red, white, and blue.

 

“FREEZE!”

 

_SHIT_!  


Ryan turned on his heel, bounding across someone's lawn.

 

Mumbled curses were thrown from the cops, and he could make out at least two silhouettes chasing after him. 

 

“STOP!” _Tinsley_. His voice was distinct and dignified, hardly out of breath at all.

  
Ryan could feel tears prickling at his eyes, the icy air, the ache of his body, the _terror_.

 

It was so quick, so rapid that it could've been one. But it wasn’t. Because the first missed, as did the second, but the third? 

The third bullet grazed his side, just beneath his last left rib.

 

The third bullet sent curses and howls tumbling from his tongue. 

 

The third bullet made him topple, made him slide to the ground.

 

But it didn’t stick.

 

So, if he ever wanted to eat another piece of popcorn again, if he ever wanted to hug his little brother again, if he ever wanted to go to a Lakers game again, if he ever wanted to see Shane smile again… then he needed to forget the rush of blood seeping down his stomach and _fucking run_.

 

Because if he was being realistic… he qualified for the death penalty.

 

So, Ryan clutched his wound, pressing into it, making sure not a drop of blood spilled onto the pavement, and he ran. He headed towards the overgrown park nearby, and charged like his life depended on it…

 

Because this time... it just might.

* * *

 

**9:50 PM**

 

Shane had decided to walk home, he was sober enough to make the trip without worry, and the bar was only twenty minutes away from his house.

 

He had called Ryan one last time, a short message saying he was going home. It had been a bit harsher than that, a bit more along the lines of, “Fuck you, I’m going home. You could at least text me back!”

 

His eyes were trained on his shoes, denim jacket buttoned tightly. He still had the newspaper tucked under his arm, the dates replaying in his head… 

 

The first death was Kornfeld… November 11th. It was the same day as his panic attack. Which, obviously, was a coincidence, but…

 

It was the same day Ryan had so confidently told him everything would be fine. The kind of surety that seemed unwavering. Factual.

 

Shane shook his head, Ryan was just trying to calm his nerves! It had been a long, tough day, and Ryan must've noticed how on edge he’d had been.

 

It was just a coincidence! They were all just… _coincidences_ … but… “once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth” - Conan Doyle or some shit, right?

 

Shane laughed–eh, scoffed, really, but it just… He was being ridiculous!

 

Ryan passed out! He fucking fainted when he thought Norris was onto them! He wasn’t a serial killer. Hell, neither was Shane! 

 

Shane had insisted on keeping his hands clean… to an extent… Ryan would obviously do the same if he had been forced into that kind of situation!

 

He made his way to the end of his block, hands shoved into his pockets, the light he had left on, the one above his front door, illuminated the driveway. 

 

“Hhh, fffuckkk.”

 

Shane froze, soft grunts and groans tumbled from his doorstep. He could see the outline of a blob, and he inched nearer. 

He was unarmed… disadvantaged. 

 

Was it one of his victims? Had he been caught?

 

No, that was fucking stupid. This person was practically _wheezing_ this wasn’t some sneak attack… unless… Was it a distraction? 

 

Shane balled his hands, fists ready for… _something._

 

The light caught his glasses and he squinted to fight the glare.

 

“Who’s there?” He demanded, five paces from the steps to his front porch. 

 

The figure whined, unintelligently.

 

Shane took two paces nearer, air being knocked from his lungs.

  
On the ground, in a contorted pile, covered in blood… was Ryan.

 

“S-Shane… I fucked up.”


	9. A Dish Best Served Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I will hurt you for this. I don't know how yet, but give me time. A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid.”

It was like playing a video game, that dissociative haze that tells the body and mind everything is just a figment of the imagination… Except it wasn’t. Not this time. 

This time it was real. This time the blood pumping through his veins, the sound of it in his ears, the shakiness of his fingers… It was all because his friend was a bloody mess in his living room.

 

Shane’s hands worked on auto-pilot, placing the first aid supplies back in his bathroom. His shoes tapping on the dark mahogany floor seemed so distant, the memory of a sound once familiar.

 

Ryan lay, now shirtless, across the couch. His face contorted in pain, hands clutching the couch cushions. Dark, syrupy blood had dried down the contour of his Adonis belt as fresher, redder blood trickled down the curves of his abs. The worst part of all, though, was just beneath his left set of ribs, a bright pink, muscly streak of skin was just gone, framed with clotted blood and torn flesh. 

 

“S-Shane–”

“Don’t talk,” Shane demanded. His voice was bitter, it was betrayed and angry and confused. A part of him reasoned that he was being selfish, but… _God dammit_ he hadn't wanted his hunch to be right!

 

Shane glanced at his open laptop, wiki-how articles on cleaning bullet wounds and tending to serious cuts still illuminating the screen. He picked up a cloth, it was damp with hydrogen-peroxide and smelled like a hospital. 

 

“Gah! Shit!” Ryan hissed, a hand instinctively gripping Shane’s arm as the taller man pressed the rag against his skin. The other hand was curled around a black piece of material… 

 

Shane knew it all too well. He knew his suspicions were dead on–maybe the wrong choice of words in this situation… or perhaps just the right ones. He knew the chills dragging down his back weren’t from the whistling wind but from some unexplainable gut feeling. A sense too strong to ignore.

 

Shane set the cloth down, trading it for a wet paper-towel and cleaning off the crimson stains.

 

Ryan writhed under his touch, agonized whimpers trailing off his tongue. He grit his teeth, turning his neck away as if to escape his friend’s touch.

 

Shane pulled back, tossing the used napkin into the nearby bin. He picked up a large piece of gauze and gently, tenderly, taped it into place. He moved to pull his hand away, but his movement stuttered.

 

Ryan was cover in exhausted shock-induced sweat, his cheeks flushed, and lips parted daintily. His eyes rested closed, hands limp at his sides. 

 

Shane’s gaze went back to that damn black fabric. He hesitated, arm extended in midair, before placing a gentle hand atop Ryan’s. He waited, just a few seconds, just long enough to seem comforting before tearing it from his friend’s grasp, another item tumbling to the ground.

 

Ryan bolted upright, wincing at the sudden shift, “Shane, wait!”

 

“Dammit, Ryan!” 

He was right. Of course, he was right. The black ski mask that he had worn when they killed Keith… It was still discolored from the blood.

 

Shane’s eyeline darted to the ground, a dark blue USB lay between the couch and the coffee table he was currently sitting atop. He looked back to Ryan, back to the drive, and back to Ryan, who, now also seemed aware of the USB’s presence. 

 

“…Shane.” It was a warning. An unheeded warning, because despite Ryan’s closeness, Shane was well bodied.

 

The taller man swiped it from the ground, Ryan’s touch grazing the back of his hand.

 

“Is this what you’re killing for? Hm?” He pushed himself off the table, towering over his injured friend.

 

Ryan’s shoulders gave out, the rise and fall of his well-sculpted chest faltering. “What?” He seemed almost dejected. Almost betrayed.

 

“You know what! You’re fucking ‘Night, Night,’ aren’t you?” Shane glowered, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “You with all your, ‘we’re gonna be alright’ and ‘till death do us part’ bullshit, huh?”

 

Ryan’s brows knitted together and he backed himself into the indent of the couch.

 

“The question is why? What’s on here that you need so desperately?” Shane turned his attention to the laptop and slid the device in.

 

“Shane–I don’t fucking–I don’t _know_ what’s on the drive!” He ran a hand through his hair, the gelled ends sticking up oddly. “I just! Shane, listen to me!” He barked.

 

The taller man stiffened, an expression that he only ever used to mask his emotions. It was the same look he’d use when he thought they were losing a court case. It was the same look from Keith’s house. The same look from when Ryan said Norris was on to them. 

 

“Where... Where did you get these? Did you know? Were you in on it?”

 

Ryan shook his head, “Shane, I don’t–”

 

He turned the computer screen towards Ryan. 

 

Staring back at the pair, in grainy black and white was—

 

“You piece of shit.” Ryan glowered.

 

Shane scoffed, placing a hand over his chest, “Excuse me?”

 

“You hypocritical piece of shit! You’re over here preaching to me about the blood on my hands when you’re working with the same crooks that got us into this mess?” Ryan threw his arms out, mockingly. 

 

“You’ve fucking _killed_ people! Plural! I wasn’t working with anyone! And besides, me breaking into a crime scene to make sure we hadn’t left anything behind doesn’t fucking compare to your heartlessness!” Shane glared, disdain dancing in his fiery, amber eyes.

 

Ryan’s shoulders went weak, his body collapsing in on himself, head shaking pitifully. “You… You… You went on your own? You went to… to… I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just-I,” He covered his mouth with a gloved hand, to keep the sobs from escaping. “The mob made me, Shane. They _made_ me do it, and now they’re trying to get me caught!”

 

The brunet’s eyes softened. They had been threatening Ryan, too? The snakes had both of them pinned to the wall? But what about this drive? Didn’t Ryan know that he was apart of their scheme?

 

“I didn’t want to! I didn’t! I– _fuck_. I… God, I didn’t mean to… I’ve fucked up, Shane! And now that I’ve refused to kill Fulmer the-they’re trying to get me caught!” His breathing became frantic as if just out of his reach, “They called the cops on me, Shane! They called the fucking police!”

 

Shane was frozen in place, he wanted to comfort his friend, but… Was this all an act? Was the mob trying to play him further? The paranoia clawed down his back, and he rolled his shoulders to fight the feeling.

 

Ryan blubbered incoherently, shaking his head, and gritting his teeth together. “I just…”

 

“Ry, hey! Hey…” The taller man gave in, sliding onto the couch with his partner, his _friend,_ before pulling him into a tight embrace. 

 

They had never been big on platonic physical contact. They would fist bump and high five but, save from that, they rarely touched. 

 

Shane had always been a touchy person, he always liked to drape an arm over his friends’ shoulders, to hug, to place his hands on someone’s lower back while guiding them, to cuddle for warmth, etc. It was just the way he had been brought up. 

 

Ryan, however, was the Mega Bro™ and that meant _NO_ to all of Shane’s platonic advances. Of course, Shane never had a problem with that, he respected his friend's boundaries and if anything it helped him hide his feeling when they first met, but… It was odd to _not_ be able to express something with more than a nod of the head or clap on the back.

 

So, when Shane pulled his weeping, shaking friend into his arms he was fully prepared to be pushed away, instead, he was pulled closer. 

 

Ryan tugged at his shirt, burying his face into the creamy fabric. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He mumbled, over and over on loop. “They… Shane, they have a video of you confessing to killing Keith.”

 

“What?” No. No, that couldn’t be! He would _never_ do anything so rash, nothing that could tie him or, God forbid, Ryan to this whole mess.

 

“You were on the phone with Andrew, and he coerced it out of you…”

 

“Fuck…” A somber silence fell over the pair. 

 

Ryan wiped the tears from his eyes, head still nestled into the crook of Shane’s neck.

 

Shane rubbed delicate circles over his back. “They’ve been blackmailing me with those photos,” Shane nodded towards the laptop, “the ones on the drive.”

 

Ryan choked on his spit, pushing himself to be at eye-level with Shane–or as eye-level as he could be. “W-what?”

 

Shane looked away, a pathetic smile on his lips, “I just wanted to make sure I, er, _we_ hadn’t left anything behind but… Andrew called… He said he had these photos and if I wanted them hidden I had to, uh, to press people for information.” He risked a glance at Ryan, his eyes big and doe-like. Their glassiness sparkling in the dim lamplight. “They’d catch ‘em, keep ‘em in holding until I could meet at some abandoned location. It–the location, I mean–it’d change each time so I wouldn’t be able to say anything to the cops, or whoever.” He licked his lips anxiously, “Uh… And then I’d have to get information out of them…”

 

“Holy… Holy _shit_.” Ryan slid himself out of Shane’s grasp, not far but just enough to signify his disgust. “You-you _tortured_ people?”

 

He didn’t answer, instead keeping his eyes on his hands.

 

“You really are a hypocritical piece of shit.”

 

“You killed 7 people, Ryan!” Shane glowered, pushing his own person away.

 

“… 8… _now_.” Ryan didn’t move, too scared to look at the expression on his best friend’s face. A grim glaze casting over his complexion.

 

“But they… they made you? …The mob?” Shane didn’t even have to ask, not when the regret and trauma were so blatantly written across Ryan’s face.

 

“Yes.” He nodded solemnly, “…You were just so scared Tuesday, and I couldn’t live knowing you had any uncertainty, especially if _I_ had left something. So, I decided to make a deal–a dumbass deal, but a deal nonetheless–that if they tidied up the crime scene I’d… do something for them in return.”Ryan pushed himself off the couch, a gasp escaping him, and a hand falling to his gash. “They really held me to it.”

 

“… You sent the mob to the sight? For me?”

 

Ryan shrugged, “For you, for us, it doesn’t matter! I didn’t want either of us getting caught!” 

 

Shane smiled, the sincerity and joy contrasting heavily from this situation. He shook his head, chuckles floating from his lopsided grin.

 

Ryan raised a brow, “What?”

 

“We both… We both checked the crime scene? Both risked our asses for this fucking criminal empire because we decided to, in some way or another, check the god damn crime scene!” The last laugh far more contemptuous. A bitter irony.

 

Ryan collapsed back into the couch, “Shane, I’m so–”

 

“ _No_. I should’ve trusted you… I should’ve… I should've trusted you when you said not to take Bennett’s fucking case!”

 

Ryan placed a hand on Shane’s knee, his eyes staring up at him adoringly and apologetically.

 

Shane frowned, taken aback by the affection.

 

The shorter man noticed the flash of surprise and moved to pull away, but Shane placed his hand atop Ryan’s, smiling.

 

“Shane,” Ryan spoke somberly, “We’re in this together.”

 

“Till death do us part, baby.”

 

Ryan hesitated, eyeing the small plastic device that was jammed into the USB port.

 

Wordlessly, Shane picked up the laptop and closed out of the photos. There was one other item on the device, a document. 

 

Ryan reached his free hand out and clicked on the mouse. 

 

A document with three lines popped up.

 

“It’s gibberish? Literal gibberish.” Shane mumbled.

 

“No… That-that can’t be,” Ryan took the laptop from Shane, his hands hot to the touch and the brunet shuddered involuntarily. 

Ryan’s dark, almond eyes flickered across the screen. His lips were pursed, brow scrunched together, thoughtfully. “Ha, I… I can’t believe it. They really did want me to get killed over nothing!” His eyes were wide and frightened, desperate.

 

Shane’s heart beat a bit faster at that look, “No… Ry, they wanted you to get you killed with photos of me. The other one is probably supposed to look like a corrupted file.”

 

Ryan’s eyes, dilated in the dim light, flickered with fear, and something else Shane couldn’t quite identify. “Fuck.” He pushed the laptop aside, letting his elbows collapse onto his knees.

 

“They’d get two birds with one stone.” He placed a hand on the younger man’s bicep, running it up and down, mindlessly. “They’d make the whole thing look like you were trying to keep me out of trouble.”

 

Ryan’s mouth was held in a small ‘o,’ a sinking feeling nagging away in the pit of his stomach.

 

“But it’s okay now! You’re safe! You’re safe with me!”

 

He was right. _Obviously_ , he was right, but something about the whole set up made even Shane think otherwise. They weren’t safe. _Ryan_ wasn’t safe anymore. The very men who were using him had turned their knight into a pawn, which, quite frankly, was against the rules of chess.

 

Shane couldn’t stop staring at his friend, couldn’t stop thinking about how he hadn’t answered his calls, couldn’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if he had stayed at the bar longer or if the gunman’s aim had been a little better.

 

A silent tear escaped Shane’s blinking eyes and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. This was _SO STUPID_! Everything was fine now! Everything was fine! Everything was fine! But it wasn’t! This wasn’t _just_ about Ryan, the mob found him disposable, too! He was just as at risk. They were throwing around those photos and… Oh God, they could be sending them off to the cops at this moment!

 

“Shane?”

 

He didn’t respond, he just placed his forehead against Ryan’s, closing his eyes. He listened to the soft breaths escaping the shorter man, trying to ignore the anxiety sinking into his lungs.

 

Ryan didn’t dare move, his hand floating in midair unsure whether or not to touch Shane.

 

The taller inhaled deeply, taking in Ryan’s scent. Taking in his warm usual smell of teakwood and basil, but, now, it was tainted with gunpowder, soil, and blood. His hands drifted to Ryan’s thighs, tentative and unimposing. Just a way to steady his weight, or at least that’s what he told himself.

 

He could hear Ryan gasp faintly, his hand coming to rest on Shane’s shoulder.

 

“I’m so sorry for dragging you into this. I’m so sorry for worrying you. I’m so sorry for not being able to help.”

 

Ryan shook his head as much as the situation at hand would allow, “Shane, don’t apologize. You couldn’t have known this would happen.” He paused, “This all Satan’s fault, anyway.”

 

Shane chuckled, “This is beyond the devil, Ry.”

 

“Ha, no, no, I mean…” Ryan smiled halfheartedly, “The other mobster, the nameless one, it’s _his_ fault.”

 

Shane pulled away, his eyes fixing on Ryan’s. “What did you say?”

 

“You know, the one in charge? Andrew’s superior?” His breaths were warm and gentle against Shane’s cheeks. Eyes watching for any sign of remembrance.

 

“You’ve spoken to him?”

 

Ryan pulled fully away, “You… haven’t?”

 

“No. I’ve been dealing strictly with Andrew.”

 

Ryan ran a hand across his mouth, “Okay… Okay…” He picked the laptop back up, eyes skimming the words over and over. It still was nonsensical. Still, just a jumble of symbols reading:

_5†59, 36¶8 ;‡ );8¶8*. - 5*†(8]_

 

Shane knew that look, the glowing-eyed look Ryan held when he thought he cracked a code, “It’s not–”

 

“Isn’t it? It has to be! Why else include the document? Why fill it with nonsense unless they knew it would be near impossible to crack?!”

  
“Exactly! _Impossible_!” Shane exclaimed.

 

“No, _near_ impossible.” Ryan corrected, the corners of his mouth quirking up a bit, “What if we do it, Shane? What if we nail ‘em to the wall?”

 

He tried to hide it, he really did, but the vengeful smirk playing at his lips, “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

 

Ryan hummed, caught up in his malicious thoughts, “If we crack this, if we play up this part of obedient servant…”

 

“Then we’ll have them like sitting ducks.” Shane nodded, “We just need to figure this out… But how?”

 

Ryan rubbed his hands together, eyes retracing the characters on the dim screen, “See that series,” he pointed to the _);8¶8*_ , “I’ve seen it before.”

 

“Where?”

 

Ryan laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, “When I… When I first tried to get in touch with the mob, to try and have them wipe down the house I may or may not have broken into Norris’ office and snooped through her files.”

 

“You did what?!” Shane gawked, wide-eyed.

 

“I know, I know, but I didn’t want you to be concerned with anything. So, I figured that was the fastest way I could get contacts.” Ryan smiled bashfully, guiltily.

 

“Okay… So, where did you see _that_?” He nodded at the word, if you could call it that.

 

“I read one of Keith’s statements,” Ryan toyed with his fingers as he spoke, “It had a list of potential involvements… That symbol was next to a crossed out name.”

 

“Do you think… that crossed out name could be this set of symbols?”

 

“It’s a start,” Ryan shrugged.

 

“And let’s say it is. Then what?” Shane inquired.

 

“Then we can backtrack. We can google what codes use these symbols for those letters. It’ll also help us figure out what eights and asterixis translate to.”

 

“You’re brilliant, Bergara,” Shane admitted, his eyes slipping from Ryan’s.

 

See, that was the thing with them. Shane was physically affectionate, all bite and no bark while Ryan, on the other hand, was all words. All compliments and loving comments. Shane never really commented on his affections for Ryan because… Well, if he did in _any way_ tried to articulate how great he believed his friend to truly be, it would fall out in sarcastic tones and snide remarks. 

 

But here, here in the dim light of his living room, his friend and business partner badly wounded, the two of them trying to escape the powers that held their lives on a string… Here he felt vulnerable in every sense of the word, and he wanted to be honest.

 

Ryan blushed, a deep rosy shade, his eyes danced with disbelief, and… Was he getting closer?

 

Shane’s breath caught in his throat and his heart drummed, for the first time in what seemed like forever, out of something other than fear. Shane’s eyes flickered over the dewiness of Ryan’s skin, the soft shadow of stubble across his chin, the warm almost purple tones in his deep mocha eyes. He inched closer. His fingers crawled forward cautiously, his index finger brushing against the shorter’s knee.

 

Ryan batted his eyes, slowly, his movements languid.

 

Shane could almost feel Ryan’s breath on him again, could almost inhale his intoxicating scent, could almost–

 

Three heavy knocks rang out from the front door.

 

Both men turned, silently, towards the sound, their contact now protective, hands tightening as if to guard the other from harm.

 

“Shane Madej, this is the police!”


	10. You're Not to Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every once and a while he’d just stare at her, watch as she casually sipped a coffee and pretended to be interested in the newspaper stands that were stationed before their building. He made eye-contact with her once, she pretended to get caught up in a butterfly fluttering past, but when she glanced back to see if Ryan was done watching her. She knew he knew, his smirk gave it away, not that he tried to hide it.

His hands were comforting and yet aggressive. Supportive and yet dominating. Fingers dug into Ryan’s biceps, guiding him forcefully into the bathroom. 

 

Shane offered him a tip of the head and a warning look that Ryan knew all too well to mean “stay silent” before the bathroom door was shut. Ryan’s side ached, abs burning with each inhale. 

 

He caught his eyes in the mirror, gaze slowly drifting to inspect the damage. His temple was dusted with a light pink and plum shade while the bridge of his nose was adorned with a brown gash and a few speckles of blood. His chest, however, was undeniably the worst off. Big, festering bruises in vermillion, maroon, and chartreuse spiderwebbed across his muscles. His skin still glistened with sweat and he couldn’t help but feel cold in the small room.

 

He pulled away from his image and leaned, uncomfortably against the white door.

 

Shane’s voice was soft, a bit too soft to make out, but Ryan guessed he was dealing out the typical pleasantries at this point. The hellos and how are yous.

 

“Shane Madej, a pleasure to see you as always! May we come in?”

 

Ryan scowled, he knew that voice. He knew that voice when it was barking orders at him to freeze, he knew that voice when it was mumbled behind the butt of a cigarette, and he knew that voice _now_ as it filtered into the cream colored room. 

 

“Please, take a seat. You’ll have to excuse the mess, I wasn’t expecting company.”

 

“Have you two met before?” Tinsley muttered, his eyes probably inspecting the scene gingerly. 

  
God, they knew it was Ryan, didn’t they? That’s why they were here?

 

“No, I don’t believe so.”

 

“This is my new partner Annie Jeong.”

 

Ryan knew that name… Why? It sounded so familiar! He furrowed his brows. He wanted to see what was going on, maybe he could just…

 

Ryan pushed the door open a tad, just enough that the keyhole let him glance into the living room.

 

The partner, Annie, was a tall young woman, her skin a warm amber and hair a dark chestnut. She was dressed smartly in a blouse and dress pants, a hand tucked comfortably on her waist. Her face was out of sight, much to Ryan’s chagrin; turned toward a small steno pad in the other hand, hair partitioning her features. 

 

“A pleasure.” Shane nodded, his eyes studying every step Tinsley took. His shoulders were stiffly drawn, fingers curled into a tentative fist.

 

“Mr. Madej,” She glanced up, a small, superficial smile on her lips, “We have a few questions for you if you don’t mind.”

 

Shit! He did know her! 

 

He had seen her name but didn’t know the face. Or at least he didn’t know he knew.

 

He remembered Satan mentioning something about an Annie, perhaps a coincidence, sure. But he knew the face! 

 

Whenever he completed a mission, he was supposed to place a candle in the windowsill. This would allow the ‘organization’ to keep tabs on everything _before_ the police. He decided one day to figure out who the spotter was, who was watching for his signal. He expected a dark car, a burly man with matrix-like glasses, a hooded figure, not a young woman with sleek hair and soft makeup. 

 

Every once and a while he’d just stare at her, watch as she casually sipped a coffee and pretended to be interested in the newspaper stands that were stationed before their building. He made eye-contact with her once, she pretended to get caught up in a butterfly fluttering past, but when she glanced back to see if Ryan was done watching her. She knew he knew, his smirk gave it away, not that he tried to hide it.

 

Instead, he played up the bit, moving the candle away from the window, and closing the blinds. She knew he knew. 

 

Her job, though, changed everything. The mob had an inside man, or woman really, someone who could keep tabs on everything going on _better_ than Ryan could. They had the perfect footing to arrange an orchestra of torment. All directed with the help of a beautiful woman named Annie Jeong.

 

“I don’t mean to sound rude, but isn’t it a bit late for an interrogation?” Shane smiled, but it was worried, his hand instinctively running through his hair to soothe himself. 

 

“You see, Madej,” Tinsley spun back to face the taller man, “We happened to be in the area when we got some information pertaining to someone you might know.” The green-eyed man fumbledfor the box of cigs in his pocket, “Mind?”

 

Shane grimaced, he quite liked the way his place lacked the smell of nicotine, “…Be my guest.”

 

“A good man,” Tinsley grinned, plopping himself into Shane’s recliner and kicking up his feet.

 

Annie stepped into the center of the room, eyes surveying the cluttered table, “Mr. Madej, you work with Ryan Bergara, is that correct?”

 

Shane’s gaze impulsively shot to the bathroom door, and a shudder went down Ryan’s spine. 

 

Fuck. They knew, didn’t they?  


“That is correct, yes.” Shane stepped closer to the bathroom door, his back now facing Ryan’s gaze. 

 

“And you two worked together on the Bennett case, is this true?”

 

“I’m not sure wh–”

 

“Answer the question, Madej,” Tinsley groaned, a puff of smoke dancing from his tongue.

 

“…Yes.”

 

“Do you know the whereabouts of your client currently?”

 

Shane scoffed, “No. I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment, or hadn’t you realized?”

 

Ryan bit back a grin, as much as he adored Tinsley he could be a fucking _pain_ when you were going against him. Not in the sense that Norris was, no. She was all cold calculation and condescending quips. She thrived off having the upper hand, she thrived off manipulation, she thrived off the look people gave her when they realized they had fucked up. 

 

Tinsley was _nothing_ like that. No, his tactic was simple, avoidable, and, yet, near fool proof. He liked to piss people off, he liked to get under their skin. He liked to smoke in their houses, to show up late, to smirk and tease and taunt. It was basic! But based on the rigid movements of Shane, it was working.

 

Ryan crossed his fingers, pointlessly, but Shane _needed_ to keep it together. 

 

“Ha, ha, very funny, Madej. I’m in _hysterics_.”

 

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here till my lease ends.” 

 

“Shane, may I call you Shane?” Annie smiled, gently, encouragingly.

 

He nodded, following every step she took.

 

“I understand my partner can be… _difficult_. But, really, Shane, this is a serious matter.”

 

She was good.

 

Ryan glared. She had the soft voice, the angelic eyes, and the sweet smile that made her too nice to distrust. Despite all he knew, he, too, felt compelled to give in to those gentle murmurs. 

 

“Do you know where Mr. Bennett is residing at this moment?”

 

Shane sighed, deeply, “I do not. Now, what is this about?”

 

“I‘m afraid that’s classified,” Tinsley slurred behind his death stick, pushing himself to his feet.

  
“I’m afraid I insist as his attorney and the citizen being harassed at almost 11 o’clock at night!”

 

“You’re not really in a position to be making demands, Madej!” He jabbed a finger into the taller man’s chest.

 

“C.C.,” Annie hushed, turning her attention to the other man, “Mr. Bennett is our primary suspect in a series of murders, Shane. He hasn’t been spotted for a number of days, and he’s one of the only living people who was known to be involved with the victims.”

 

“Does this have anything to do with the ‘Night, Night’ killer?”

 

Shane! NO! SHUT UP! 

 

Ryan stifled a breath, his gaze skimming over the scene in the room.

 

Shane was turned, just a tad towards the bathroom. Annie was still holding her notepad, but her other hand was resting _comfortingly_ on Shane’s shoulder. Tinsley was scanning the clutter atop the coffee table, eyes occasionally examining Shane.

 

“Madej,” Tinsley interrupted, his searching stopping at the trash can, “Did you cut yourself?”

 

“I’m sorry?” 

 

“Oh, well, I just noticed the bloody cloths in the waste bin. Did you cut yourself?”

 

Shane was silent. The tension in the room suddenly sickening. 

 

Ryan bit his lip, oh god they were fucking _busted_. 

 

“Oh, ha,” Shane shook his head, pitifully, his hands held behind his back. “Yes, I cut my hand cleaning!” 

 

Ryan covered his mouth, silencing his gasps as he watched Shane pull his key ring from his back pocket and run his Swiss Army knife along the side of his hand.

 

“It’s…” He choked on the pain for a moment, “It’s still fresh,” He showed off the wound before picking up a paper towel on the table and dabbing his cut.

 

Ryan sighed heavily, his head hitting the door frame gently… but not gently enough. He should've learned by now! His relief induced clumsiness had nearly ruined things with Eugene! 

 

Shane tensed, Tinsley shook his head dismissively, but Annie… Annie’s eyes fell on the door. 

 

“Shane, could I use your restroom for a moment?”

 

Fuck!

 

“Oh, Uh, Yeah!” His voice raised a tad, a warning sign that clearly meant HIDE OR GET OUT PLEASE!

 

Ryan suppressed a groan as he staggered to his feet. There wasn’t anywhere to hide! He couldn’t just slip out now!

 

“You’ll have to keep an eye on the toilet, sometimes it takes a couple tries to flush shit down… Ha, literally, sometimes.” That was a lie, Ryan knew that was a lie, Shane was stalling.

 

“That’s okay.” Her voice was determined, footsteps fast.

 

“Oh, and the lights sometimes flicker in there,”

 

Ryan’s gaze was spotty, dancing to every corner of the room.

 

“That’s no problem at all.”

 

_Shit_! 

 

Ryan shot a glance at the door, their footsteps loud, his heart pounding.

 

_Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

 

**9:35 A.M.**

 

They hadn’t spoken since that night. Both too weary of condemning themselves, or talking about what happened _earlier_. 

 

Ryan had come into the office early, he was too jittery over all of this to stay at home… Or maybe it was the caffeine. If he was being honest, he hadn’t gotten much sleep in general since Friday, and half his diet now was black coffee.

 

The office was humming with the normal workday hustle, but it felt distorted. As if coming from the other side of a thick glass. 

 

Ryan had placed his little candle in the window, but this time he kept the blinds down. He didn’t want to make eye contact with Annie this time. Not after her stunning grin flashed manipulatively around Shane’s house.

 

“Where did you go?!” Shane laughed loudly, an easy grin on his lips as he shut the door behind him. “How’d you do it?”

 

Ryan tilted his head, trying to keep his own prideful smile from his lips, “I jumped out the window. Hurt like hell, but,” he shrugged.

 

“Fuck, man, I thought we were busted for sure!” Shane threw his bag onto the desk, pulling out papers and rulers.

 

“Woah, woah, what’s all this?”

 

“We need a plan.” Shane cleared off Ryan’s desk, ignoring the folders that spilled to the floor. “You said so yourself, this is worth a shot.”

 

The shorter man nodded, sliding his chair forward, “What’s your plan?”

 

Shane rolled up his sleeves, his eyes alight with a passion Ryan hadn’t seen in a long while, “There are two logical places the folder could be. First,” He held up an index finger, “Norris’ office. Second,” a second finger popping up, “the records room.”

 

Ryan nodded, pulling out a pad of paper and jotting the locations down. “The records room is simple, we just ask to look at our last case file for paperwork… Right?”

 

Shane hummed, “Mhm. Norris, though, that’ll be tricky, but I think it can be done if we have a distraction.” Shane rooted around through his bag and pulled out a pile of papers. A few were handwritten, others typed, a handful were on thick, expensive paper while others were on college-rule. He dropped the stack before Ryan with a grin. 

 

The younger quirked a brow, sliding the stack to himself. He skimmed the first page.

 

Oh, this… _this_ was good.

 

“That is a _stack_ of _formal_ complaints against Detective Francesca Norris with reasons ranging from “forced me to take my earbuds out during an interrogation” to “threatened to punch me so hard my brains would splatter the walls.” We can have a field day, Ry! We already know she–no offense–can’t stand you, so, if you go to her office and start throwing these around, she’ll lose her mind!”

 

“This is… Genius!” 

 

Shane chuckled, bashfully, “I don’t know if I’d go _that_ far–”

 

“I would! Shane, I never would've thought to use that against her.” The younger man beamed, his teeth glittering in the light as he stared up at Shane, adoringly.

 

“Heh,” Shane rubbed the back of his neck, “Well, thank you.”

 

“Uh, Shane,” Ryan fumbled with his fingers, not daring to look up. His enthusiasm gone in an instant as the reality of everything trickled back. “I’ve fucked up a lot… I… I don’t want you to get wound up in this. May-Maybe–”

 

“No, Ryan,” Shane’s voice held a finality in it that made the dark haired man almost stay silent… _almost_.  


“But this is _my_ fault, I don’t want you to have to snoop around!”

 

“This isn't your fault!” Shane silenced, placing his hands on the desk. He closed his eyes, sighing pitifully. “If I hadn’t gotten you so worried about my suspicions that I left something behind then… You-you wouldn’t… It…” He placed his head onto the table, “I’m so fucking sorry, Ry.”

 

The younger man melted, the tension in his shoulders dissipating. After everything, after _everything_ Ryan had done, the lives he had taken, _Shane_ was blaming himself for this mess.

 

“Shane… you have _no_ reason to be sorry–”

 

“But it was _my_ idea to work with the mob,” He mumbled, face still squished to the wood.

 

“Okay, you have _one_ reason to be sorry,” Ryan smiled, “but so do I. I have so, so many reasons. I’ve forgotten–fuck–I’ve forgotten who I am through all this. The only thing that’s… the only thing that’s kept me going was knowing it would keep you safe.” 

 

Shane lifted his head up a bit, eyes catching the bright fluorescent lights, “But doesn’t that make it my fault?”

 

“No!” Ryan shook his head, leaning down to be eye level with his partner, “You didn’t ask me to do any of this. I just… I care about you, uh, a lot. You know?”

 

“Yeah…” He nodded, “I care about you, too.”

 

Ryan placed his hand atop Shane’s, “Okay… Then tell me the rest of your plan. We have a mob to stop.”


	11. Things Rarely Disappear Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is my duty, just as it is yours,” He swallowed thickly, the words a taunting, guilty poison on his tongue, “To uphold the law. Therefore, I am being forced to come forward."

It was just before noon, most officers cleaning up their workspaces and preparing for lunch. An optimal window to get less than ethical work done. 

 

Ryan and Shane walked in time, footsteps in sync. Ryan seemed surprisingly calm, an air of confidence surrounding him. The large stack of papers pressed firmly to his chest, eyes surveying the officers that trotted down the front steps. “Shit…”

 

“What?” Shane paused, a subtle shadow of worry flickering over his soft face.

 

“I haven’t tried to walk up stairs since… ya know,” He glanced at his side.

 

Ryan had been doing a good job of hiding his injury, his limp was subtle and he was surprisingly skilled at keeping a neutral face when in pain–a perk to being a lawyer, Shane believed. This, however, was a different story. The police station was _filled_ with stairs… and cops like Norris and Tinsley. Cops who were involved and on the lookout for men who were roughly 5ft 9in to 6ft with subtle limps and injured sides.

 

“Want to… hold my arm?” A warmth settled on Shane’s cheeks as the words left him, he had always been comfortable with contact. Always tactile, and as he was well aware Ryan was… _not_ , but recently it was different. Everything was different. Recently Ryan had cried into his shoulder, held his hands, leaned into him… _killed people_.

 

Ryan looked up at him, innocently, like a young boy asking his crush to a dance, “You’re sure you don’t mind?” 

 

“Nah,” He shrugged, holding out his arm.

 

Ryan’s touch was firm, but not overwhelming, _comfortable_ , as the pair gingerly reached the front doors. Shane pulled away first, just out of formality, and perhaps because his heart was beating a bit too fast for his liking.

 

This whole thing seemed… _off_. Ryan was always the emotional one, the one who would yell at spooky things and feel unnerved about unethical actions. Shane was nonchalant, calloused, and sarcastic. He could get shot and probably laugh through the pain. He could turn off his moral compass with a bottle of vodka and the promise of a reward… Or so he had thought.

 

Truth be told his sarcasm and ‘cool’ exterior were just coping mechanisms. Ryan liked emotional catharsis, liked yelling and crying and laughing to help him think straight, he liked getting caught up in his emotions. He liked to remind himself that he was human _by_ _feeling_. 

 

Shane preferred to repress his torments. He liked to cut himself off from the things that could keep him up at night. He wanted to live in the present and not obsess over the past. He wanted to forgive and forget. _He wanted to_. But something changed that horrible Sunday night. He had snapped. Maybe it was one dead body too many–he had seen a lot in his line of work. Maybe it was the fact he watched the figure lose consciousness. Maybe it was the blood that splattered his forehead, his hair, his glasses. Maybe it was the reminder that it was a kill or be killed kind of world… but _something_ changed. He changed. 

 

He remembered, at that moment, what he was fighting for. Why everything was worth the risk. Their business had been at stake. They had enough cash, they had decent notoriety– _sure_ –but if they had lost that case if they had lost their ‘ally’ in the mob, then they would’ve been done. Their company would’ve been ruined… and Ryan would’ve left. 

 

Perhaps they should’ve declined, perhaps they should’ve pointed Bennett in another direction–okay, they _definitely_ should have pointed Bennett in another direction, but they didn’t. 

They took the case, and Shane did it for Ryan–like he did all things–and it reminded him of that stupid, stupid night in their last year of law school when they were both far too wasted. When they were sprawled across Shane’s bed, caught in a laughing fit about nothing in particular, and Ryan had whispered softly that he wanted to start his own law firm. 

 

The room had been dim, but the yellow bulbs from the bathroom casted a soft glow on the shorter man’s tan skin. His eyes seemed to twinkle, lips still wet from the beer bottle in his hand. 

 

Ryan told Shane he was scared, he had never been able to have a position of authority before. He had never been in charge of someone’s fate like he would being a lawyer–a _real_ one–but he had to try! “People need me!” He had said, or something to that effect.

 

And Shane melted under those deep sienna eyes. He pulled away from Ryan, afraid that if he didn’t he might do something stupid… but the distance didn’t stop him. Perhaps he didn’t inch closer, perhaps he didn’t confess that nothing in the world could compete with the way he felt when they were together–or something equally cheesy. No, but that didn’t stop him from doing something– _saying_ something stupid.

 

“I’ll help you… with the law firm… if-if you want me to…” His words had been a stuttering mess, but the glowing grin from Ryan, the pink cheeks, and wide eyes were enough. More than enough.

 

His friend, his _future_ _partner_ hugged him, tight. He yelled, he laughed. He might’ve cried, too, but Shane could only remember the way Ryan clutched him. The way his heart beat like the heavens had fallen to earth. The way everything felt like it was wrapped in gossamer film, a bit too dream-like, but strangely real. 

 

Ryan had kept asking if he was sure, speech slurred, eyes happy then anxious then happy again. Each time Shane’s answer was the same, “Yes, Ryan, I’m positive,” because _he was_. Despite the job offer Shane had just received from a prestigious firm, despite how close it was to the house Shane was looking to rent, despite how good the pay was, despite how perfect it seemed… it wasn’t perfect. It could _never_ be perfect… because Ryan wouldn’t be there by his side.

 

Ryan wouldn’t be there to bright dim rooms with his smile. 

 

Shane knew, in hindsight, that he was making a mistake. He would go much further if he took to the logical path, but ‘good things come to those who wait…’ and maybe that was it, maybe Shane should’ve waited a bit longer after they lost the case to see what Ryan would do. To see if his partner and friend would leave as he predicted. Maybe it was all the torments that he had stuffed in the junk drawer of his mind coming back to bite him.

 

But no matter, it caused _this_. 

 

It caused eight innocent lives to be taken and just as many naive victims to be tortured, it caused countless hours of heartbreak and anxiety and paranoia, it caused bullet wounds and bruises and scars, it caused guilt and remorse. 

 

It caused Ryan to be stuck here, beside Shane, a gash in his side, as the two prepared to rob the very people who they once admired. 

 

“Ready?”

 

And because Shane couldn’t turn back time, because he couldn’t set Ryan on a better life path, one that didn’t involve murder or blackmail or theft or _him_ … He just stared down, the sadness shining through his eyes like light filtering through amber crystals, and said, “Till death do us part.”

 

* * *

 

Her door was ajar, and normally he still would’ve knocked but his nerves were bubbling over, so, instead, he pushed into the room and flashed a superficial smile, “Norris.”

 

“Bergara,” Her voice was cold, eyes even colder, if such a thing were possible, as they peered over her shoulder. Her silver curls were held in a loose ponytail, and her wire-framed glasses dipped to the end of her nose. Her back was towards Ryan, head buried in paperwork as she towered over her filing cabinet. “I’m quite busy today, so if you could make this brief,” She didn’t look back up, instead she just whirled her hand around as if to say “hurry up.”

 

“I’m afraid this might take a bit longer than you’d like,” Ryan tried to keep the smugness off his face as he stepped–or shuffled really–further into the room. 

 

Norris rolled her eyes, signature scowl perfectly in place, “What do you want?”

 

He waited, watching intently as she finally sighed and set down the documents she was reading.

 

“What?” She groaned.

 

“Detective, it has recently come to my attention that a number of my clients have felt _less_ than hospitable treatment while in your custody.”

 

“Pity.” She shrugged, walking to her desk and shutting her case files, suspiciously.

 

“Mm, so it is.” Ryan agreed, dropping the stack loudly before her, “Because, the thing is, some of their complaints portray you in a rather unflattering light.”

 

Norris pushed her glasses up, sliding to the edge of her chair, back perfectly straight, as she examined the papers. “This… this is absurd,” Wide-eyed and mouth parted in a subtle uneasiness. 

 

And Ryan couldn’t help it, the shit-eating grin just forced its way across his face. “Is it? I think they seem perfectly in-character for you.”

 

“What do you want?” She seethed, her gaunt cheeks now splotched with an angry, nervous red.

 

“To speak with the chief.” Ryan picked the offending stack back up, drawing it over his wound, protectively.

 

“You wouldn’t!” Norris growled, slamming her hands against the hard-wood desk as she rose to her feet.

 

“Oh,” He leaned in close, the smell of her rotten perfume, stifling, “But I would.”

 

“You’re a piece of shit, Ryan Bergara!” She howled, her heels clacking loudly as she followed him into the hallway.

 

Ryan threw a smirk over his shoulder, catching Norris’ ash-grey eyes, “Maybe I should add that one, too, hm?” His steps were purposeful, but _aching_ and he gritted his teeth each time the weight landed on his left leg. 

 

When he reached the bullpen, he could spot Shane politely chatting up Holly, just as they had discussed. Her pearly smile was brighter than every light in the room, so, when her eyes spotted Norris clambering after Ryan when the smile died from her lips, no one missed it.

 

“Uh, could you give me a moment, Shane?” The young woman, a striking 5ft 4in looked minuscule in comparison to Shane’s towering figure, but despite her size, she moved fast. “Cesca, what’s going on?”

 

Norris shook her head, skin glistening with a sickened cold sweat, “Bergara’s gonna fuckin’ report me!”

 

“What? What for? Ryan!?” Holly caught onto his arm, and a pained whine nearly escaped him.

 

“She’s been harassing my clients, Holly!” Ryan stated, matter of factly, pulling his arm away. He brushed the wrinkles out of the thin fabric as he tried to compose himself. “I tried to ignore it, but after this,” He raised the heavy stack, “I am being forced to take action.”

 

“Ryan, you can’t really–”

 

“Detective Horsley,” His voice was serious now, the usual chipper tone replaced with only malice and determination, “It is my duty, just as it is yours,” He swallowed thickly, the words a taunting, guilty poison on his tongue, “To uphold the law. Therefore, I am being forced, in the interest of checks and balances, to bring attention to the causes that may unlawfully affect our justice system.”

 

Holly’s shoulders drooped, her soft honey eyes flickering to Norris. A strand of her cinnamon hair slipped out of place, and, instead of tending to it, she settled for turning her attention to her loafer-like shoes. 

 

Ryan took a deep breath and turned away, “I’m sorry, Francesca, this isn’t anything personal.”

 

“Bullshit, Ryan.” Norris buried her head in her hands for a moment to stifle a deep-throated growl, “You bastard!” she hissed, her footsteps heavy and booming as they neared him.

 

“Cesca, stop!” Holly pulled her back or _tried_ to, but Norris was determined. 

 

She didn’t attack him, or steal the files, or yell again, like he thought she might, instead, she just strode past him and clambered up the stairs.

 

Ryan’s pace, for obvious–well, hopefully not _obvious_ –reasons, was tentative. He gripped the railing with a white hand, watching as Norris threw open her boss’ door.

 

“Chief! I’ve always been a valued member of this team, yes?” Her voice flowed from the room, loudly, almost as if she was begging for the world to help her.

 

A soft, thoughtful hum answered back, “You have.”

 

“Then, Chief, you have to–”

 

Ryan stepped into the office, unapologetically, “She doesn’t _have_ to do anything, Norris.” He turned to the woman in question, an award-winning smile on full display, “Chief Houston, a pleasure as always.”

 

“What is this about?” She adjusted herself, leaning back in her chair. Her desk was immaculate, color-coded, and adorned with a gold nameplate reading, “Chief Chantel Houston.”

 

“Chief,” Ryan sat down, sliding his seat forward.

 

Norris was frantic, _composed,_ but frantic. Her eyes were wide and although she looked quite like herself, her shoulders were drooped slightly, her curls had lost their shape, her nose was pink, and her hands were a bit shaky as she toyed with her fingers behind her back.

 

“It has recently become known to me that a number of my former clients have… _complaints_ about Detective Norris’ techniques.” He placed the stack before the chief.

 

Her dark mauve pout drew into a thin line, dark eyelashes casting shadows down her cheeks. 

 

“Chief Houston, this is blasphemy. Bergara and I have never been on good terms, but I never thought he’d stoop to slander!”

 

“Detective, those are some harsh allegations! Do you–”

 

Holly tentatively stepped in, “Ma’am, if I may?”

 

Chief Houston closed her eyes, thoughtfully, before looking up at Holly, “Yes, Detective, take a seat. Can you clear any of this up for me in an _unbiased_ way?”

 

Holly bit her lip, looking at Norris with soft, sad eyes. “Chief, if I may be perfectly candid neither party is totally in the wrong here. I am aware that my partner has her flaws, but I blame myself for not stepping in when I knew things were getting out of hand. Cesc–er, Norris has been known for her harsh tactics and temperament issues, but so have half a dozen other cops. If each complaint was brought to the attention of that officer’s superior, we would have only a fraction of the force left!”

 

The Chief nodded, thoughtfully, and Ryan could feel that sinking in the bottom of his stomach again. This operation wasn’t _just_ about stalling, it was about alleviating an obstacle and saving face, and even if they managed to get this done, there was a likelihood that their reputations would be tarnished in the process.

 

“Nevertheless,” Holly started up again, forcing herself to ignore Norris’ heavy gaze, “Defense Attorney Bergara, as he stated quite well earlier, is simply acting on the behalf of the justice system’s call for checks and balances. It is his lawful duty to keep his fellow law enforcers in line and voice the discomforts of his clients. I believe the statements are worth a look, _but_ I do not believe a harsh response is the most effective course of action… _Especially_ considering Detective Norris’ success rate.”

 

_Damn_. She was good. Maybe _Horsley_ should've become a lawyer. 

 

Chief Houston nodded thoughtfully, “Norris,” the room was weighted with the tension of what could be said in the next words, “You have a good partner, and I trust her judgment…However, I _legally_ must consider the evidence against you. You’re safe for now, but if I find anything more than foul language and poor conduct of interrogations in these papers, if I find _anything_ that could suggest your actions as legally reprehensible you _will_ be on probation until a more thorough investigation can be explored. Is that clear?”

 

“Yes, Ma’am.” Norris’ voice was a whisper, a ghost in the stuffy room.

 

“Good. Now, I suggest you solve the Habersberger case because it might be your last.”

 

“Yes, Chief. Thank you, Chief.” Norris didn’t look back, a rosy wash decorating her pale skin. 

 

Holly seemed drawn to, magnetically, but turned back to the Chief first, despite the literal shift in her body’s direction, “Thank you, Chief.” 

 

Ryan sat, utterly flabbergasted, eyes trailing after the two women. “Chief Houston,” he nodded politely, “Have a pleasant day.”

 

His feet traveled, numbly, out of the room. Hands grazing the stairwell, instinctively, yet he was still caught up in his head. Still caught up in the emotional waves of that exchange. He had never seen Norris so… distraught. He had never seen Holly so… defensive. He knew the women well, but still, he felt so much closer, in a way, to them now after that ordeal. 

 

He watched from the staircase landing as officers and detectives took long strides across the room. Most carrying folders and files with them, a few clutching coffees, and the odd one or two totally empty-handed.

 

He could make out Tinsley’s desk from where he stood, just to the left of Ryan was the steps to his bullpen. 

 

He ran a frazzled hand through his hair and finished taking the steps. He wanted to stop by Tinsley’s, wanted to ask questions but the throbbing of his side was nearly unbearable now. 

 

Norris was sitting, dazed, at Holly’s desk. Her head was in her hands, shaking back and forth. Holly placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be okay… Detective Jeong just texted me saying she and her partner had picked up the evidence from forensics so we could give it another look.”

 

Norris didn’t move, just listened to Holly’s gentle ramblings.

 

This was just as well, Ryan figured, he needed to keep watch for whenever Shane emerged. His eyes were fixed on the hallway towards Norris’ office, his fingers fumbling idly with the coffee machine. 

  
“Bergara? What're you doing here?”

 

“Tinsley!?” Ryan blinked, surprised. Speak of the devil as they say! “I, uh, I was talking to the chief.” He shook his head, caught off guard. “How’ve you been? Anything exciting goin’ on?”

 

“It’s been… eventful. Last weekend we got our first glimpse of the infamous ‘Night Night’!” Tinsley’s eyes were bright, excited and determined. The man had always hungered for justice, not in the way Ryan did, though. Ryan wanted… ‘fairness.’ He wanted those who stole bread for their family to be pardoned, those who were blackmailed to be acknowledged, and those who committed crimes only for themselves, only for their bloodlust or impulsivity to be punished. 

 

Tinsley wanted criminals to suffer the consequences. To him, it was all cut and dry, black and white, right and wrong. 

 

“Oh, really?” Ryan picked up a paper cup and poured a heavy serving of coffee into it. “How’d that go?”

 

“Not as well as we would’ve hoped. Although I did graze him with a bullet.” He shrugged, the large box in his hands moving with his shoulders.

 

Ryan sipped the bitter drink, “Hm? That’s impressive. Any leads?”

 

“Actually, one… Have you been in touch with Bennett recently?” Tinsley leaned against the counter, setting the box down beside him.

 

“I haven’t no. Have you spoken to Shane?”

 

“I have, yes.” He played with the end of his black tie, mindlessly. Thinking of anything else to ask Ryan while he was here.

 

The shorter man's gaze strayed to the box, curious as to the contents. Inside we're odds and ends, but one item caught Ryan’s attention the most. 

 

“Are those Shane’s glasses?”

 

“What did you say?” Tinsley’s head snapped up.

 

“Those,” Ryan pointed into the box, “Are those Shane’s glasses?”

 

Tinsley held a pen in his right hand and used it to fish the plastic, clear frames out of the container. 

 

“Yeah! Yeah, they are. He scratched the left arm like a week after he got them!” Ryan pointed, excitedly, “You can see how it turned a faint blue there, it drove him _crazy!_ ” 

 

“Horsley, Norris!” Tinsley called, a hesitant grin on his face as the still rather delirious women approached, “Ryan, tell them what you told me.”

 

“…Uh, those are Shane’s glasses… He scratched the left arm after he… after he first got them… Why?” Ryan looked between the trio, chills ran down his spine and the hairs on the back of the neck rose with worry. “What’s going on?”

 

“Where’s Madej right now?” Norris demanded.

 

“He was here just earlier, I’m not sure now…”

 

Ryan’s eyes darted immediately to the hallway, his heartbeat picking up, and just as he had suspected, there stood Shane. A gentle smile rested on his face, and he opened his mouth to say _something_ but Ryan shook his head. A silent plead to _shut up, for once in your life_.

 

Tinsley, though, Tinsley noticed the subtle gesture eyes straying to the conspicuous man at the center of the room. “Shane Madej,” He called, turning to face the tall figure. 

 

That’s when Shane must’ve noticed, that’s when his eye must’ve been drawn to the glasses dangling off the ballpoint pen because the color drained from his face. He raised his hands to cover his mouth, eyes begging _desperately_ for Ryan to forgive him. 

 

Norris grinned, victorious, “Shane Madej, you’re under arrest for the murder of Keith Habersberger.”

 

The room went silent, officers, civilians, detective alike all turned to watch the notable defense attorney, the man who had outwitted _many_ , have his hands pulled behind his back and cuffed.

 

“Fuck.” Ryan gasped. “Shit, fuck.” He tried to step closer, to stop this, but Horsley and Tinsley held him back. “God fucking dammit!”

 

Shane kept shaking his head, eyes closed as he tried to convince himself this was all a horrible, horrible dream.

 

“I’m gonna get you outta there, man! I promise! I’m not giving up on you, Shane! I know the truth!” Ryan shouted, his lip quivering.

 

Shane finally opened his eyes, finally looked back at the man he had sacrificed so much for and whispered, helplessly, “I’m sorry, Ry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao, so apparently when I uploaded this I accidentally wrote 'chapter 12,' which... it is not, so... whoops.


	12. The Walls Are Caving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he sat, hands cuffed to the cold metal interrogation table, he was forced to admire the irony of the situation in a pitiful attempt to ignore the snake-like coils twisting around his organs.

There are many things in life that are odd, not necessarily in the sense that they’re incomprehensible or shocking, but in the sense that most people wouldn’t ever spend time thinking about them. Situational oddities.

 

It could be a calm day, for instance, an ordinary grocery store trip when all of a sudden the sight of a past teacher confronts you. Often this turn of events is followed by polite banter and the less than pleasant discussion of current life or schooling arrangements. Alternatively, this feeling can be experienced when returning to a school you previously departed from. The strange familiarity of staff, architecture and environmental energy seems inviting, yet, _you_ are regarded by most as an outcast.

 

Shane never liked that feeling, it lingered like the wetness of damp socks or the smell of chemical cleaner. It made him feel… _unnerved_. And as he sat, hands cuffed to the cold metal interrogation table, he was forced to admire the irony of the situation in a pitiful attempt to ignore the snake-like coils twisting around his organs. The shameful warmth that filled his lungs in these scenarios was near stifling and he struggled to loosen his tie. 

 

“Why?” A soft voice question, it was almost a beg, “What was your motive? What would you get out of it?”

 

Shane was silent, eyes fixed on the chains around his wrists, watching as pink lacerations began to form. 

 

“Shane,” Holly slid closer, barely sitting in her chair anymore, “Please. Help me understand and I can try to cut you a deal.”

 

His lips felt dry, cotton in his mouth, rope around his neck. His eyes seemed hollow as he met himself in the double-sided mirror, perhaps Norris or Tinsley were watching him. Perhaps they were discussing how they expected this or how it caught them by surprise.

 

Holly lightly placed a hand atop Shane’s, but he pulled back. “Shane…” She looked genuinely grief-stricken. Maybe she wanted a confession to calm her own conscience, maybe she wanted one so she could allow herself to believe she hadn’t missed something _so obvious_. “I… I need you to talk to me.”

 

Shane’s tongue was pressed firmly to his right cheek, his gaze never meeting his friend… if he could even call Holly that. Head cast down, muscles tight, “I want my lawyer.”

 

She pulled away, leaning back in the chair with a defeated sigh, eyes closing exhaustedly. “He’s on his way. He just had to get a few things from the office.”

 

“I’ll step in,” A silver-haired figure entered the room. Her grey eyes were far less remorseful, instead, they held a surprise–subtle, as all her emotions were–that could only be seen if you knew her well. She waited till Horsley closed the door, allowing the fluorescent lights’ buzz to fill the silence for her. “Madej, I’m gonna level with you,” She didn’t sit, instead, she leaned against the mirror, blocking Shane from his likeness, “I’m not a big fan of yours… _but kidnapping? Murder_?” 

 

Ah… That’s right… They hadn’t found the body yet. They weren't sure if he was dead, but they believed it to be true. Shane’s shoulders relaxed by a fraction.

 

Norris looked up, gathering her wits, “No matter how vile I may find you in court, I would _never_ accuse you of such a thing. So,” She stalked to the table, an animal assessing its prey, “I want to know _why_ your glasses were at Habersberger’s house?”

 

It was hard to breathe at this point, despite the small consolation that the force didn’t have the body, his need to gasp and scream and _plead,_ was at an extremity that Shane never thought _he_ of all people would sink to. He’d seen plenty of clients practically disintegrate as their guilt washed over them, but… Shane was at a loss. He couldn’t say _anything_ without risking condemning himself or Ryan.

 

Where was that man?

 

Shane was currently in holding because, as it stood presently, the only link to him and those glasses were Ryan’s word. A word that, unfortunately, held a lot of weight.

 

“Dammit, Madej! I want to help you! Talk to me!” Norris shook her head, “It was Bennett! I _know_ it was Bennett! Why’re you protecting him?”

 

Shane wanted to laugh, a bitter, contemptuous laugh, a laugh that mocked the detectives he had so admired. It was all in front of them if only they bothered to look. 

 

“Fine.” She conceded, “You can wait for your _lawyer_.” She slammed the door on her way out, and a chill settled over the room.

 

Shane had never missed Norris’ presence before, but alone in the grey room, the harsh lights and pale reflections only on display for him left him longing for her exasperated bitterness. He grit his teeth, letting his forehead stick to the table. A guilty wash rolling over him

 

It was only a matter of time. It was _all_ only a matter of time… And if they could figure out that the murder was with the intentions of silencing Keith… well… that would guarantee him a place at the injection table. ‘A humane execution’ as they say.

 

“Shit, Shane, I’m so sorry! I… Shit, dude.” Ryan mumbled, setting his briefcase and notepad down. His disheveled hair and wide eyes betrayed any sense of calm that could be.

 

Shane shook his head, allowing the claustrophobic room to expand now that he was with Ryan.

 

“Did… Did you find it?” Ryan’s voice was low, eyes expectant.

 

A nod. 

 

“Did they… get it?”

 

No. Shane made sure of that.

 

“Okay, that’s good… Uh, where? Where is it–”

 

“Alright, your lawyer is here, now we have some questions.” Tinsley stepped in, hands on his hips, Norris trailing after him.

 

_Shit_. 

 

Holly was well known for her ‘good cop’ routine, Norris iconic for her ‘bad cop’ role, but Tinsley… Well, he was ‘worse cop.’

 

“Where were you the night of Habersberger’s disappearance?” 

 

The only ones that had any clue as to where Keith’s remains were were Shane, Ryan… _shit_ , and Andrew and Satan. No, but that was fine… That was fine because they didn’t _want_ the cops to know the circumstances of the killing… That could put all of them at risk. Right?

 

“He was with me,” Ryan stated, his hands resting on the back of Shane’s chair. He stood like a bodyguard, watching their opponents.

 

“Where at?” Tinsley smiled, sitting on the edge of the table, one foot swinging, casually. 

 

“My house. I’m afraid I don’t have a way to prove this… Oh, well, we did rent ‘Halloween’ from Amazon, but that’s all I’ve got.”

 

“Hmm… Interesting…” Tinsley fixed the cuff of his sleeve, “Mr. Madej, you hold your reputation dearly, do you not?”

 

Shane folded his hands before his mouth, with a sigh, “I s’pose.” He rested his chin on his thumbs, his intertwined fingers sitting just beneath his nose. 

 

“It’s been said that when you were in college you would occasionally get _so_ competitive you’d threaten other students. Is that true?”

 

Ryan stepped in, “So he can get a bit academically riled up, your point?”

 

“Did the near loss of the Bennett case threaten your ego? Were you worried that if you didn’t help him with… _this,_ he’d threaten your ‘good name?’”

 

“That’s ludicrous, Tinsley, and you know it.” Ryan scoffed, disgusted, “You’ve worked with Sh- _my client_ before, don’t act as though his character is a jigsaw puzzle.”

 

Tinsley shrugged, feigning a look of guilt, “Oh, my apologies, Bergara, it was not my intention to upset you. Perhaps you’d be better suited to working on a matter you're less… involved with.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ryan glared.

 

A hot, shameful flash enveloped Shane as if he was being drenched in bath water. Chills crawled up his arms at the sudden, psychological, temperature change. Tinsley must’ve thought they were involved, and Ryan–if he was catching on like Shane was– _clearly_ wasn’t having any of this.

 

“I only mean that because Shane is your… _partner_ it might be best to find a less personal lawyer.”

 

Ryan shook his head, his hands had moved from Shane’s chair to the table. He leaned close to Tinsley, eyes shining with a fury Shane never knew Ryan to be capable of. 

 

“I suggest you do your job and stop worrying about matters that don’t concern you, _Detective_. You only have 48 hours, please recall.”

 

That’s right. Unless they could link the glasses to Shane and _place him_ at the crime scene, he only had 48 hours before he’d once again be a free man.

 

The pair didn’t move, both caught in a stare so intense that Shane felt sickly hot. Sweat clung to each person’s brow, a shiny glaze over everyone’s skin. The small room, suddenly, a furnace. Their own personal hell.

 

Norris had just opened her mouth to speak when the door was creaked open. 

 

Annie, Tinsley’s partner, peered into the room, “Keith’s been located…”

 

_No_ … Shane wanted to grab Ryan, to hold his head in his hands and shout “RUN WHILE YOU STILL CAN!” but he couldn’t. He could only grit his teeth and stare at the white lights with a vain hope that it would make his pupils contract. A sign of honesty.

 

“Well… parts of him…”

 

“No,” Norris’ gasp was barely audible, her hands falling over her mouth. “No… No…” She looked like she might vomit. Her eyes fell to Shane, desperately searching for a sign, a signal of redemption, anything to prove he was the man she once knew.

 

His gaze, often a soft caramel brown, was panicked but _not_ surprised. His lips were drawn in a tight line and his hands were balled up in defensive fists.

 

“If you knew, Madej, you’re _sick_.”

 

Tinsley looked down his nose, green eyes flickering over the pitiful man, “We’ll be back.”

 

Their footsteps were only ghosts, now. Their words still echoes in the room… Still echoes in Shane’s mind.

 

“Fuck.” Ryan breathed, “SHIT!” He slammed his hands down onto the table. 

 

Shane flinched, but instead of pulling away he reached out for Ryan, and without hesitation, the shorter man fell beside him.

 

“Shane, I am… I am so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about the glasses. I shouldn’t have! I, shit,” Ryan let the defeated exhaustion close his eyes, head falling forward awkwardly.

 

Shane tucked his tongue into his cheek again, his tone barely a whisper, “Trust me.”

 

“Hm?” Ryan turned to meet his gaze, but Shane steadied his face, holding his chin with his forefinger and thumb. Shane took in the shock that graced the man’s rich, mahogany eyes, and, without a second thought, pressed his lips to Ryan’s. 

 

It was like Shane had been kicked in the gut, the breath in his lungs stolen by his own foolish actions, but what else could he do? He _needed_ more. His hands latched onto Ryan’s tie, harshly. His partner gasped, and Shane couldn’t help but smirk, his tongue guiding Ryan’s lips further apart. The Ryan’s hands ran, smoothly, up Shane’s blazer, hooking around his collar. Just as they began to move together, a rhythmic syncing, Shane pulled away. They had to stop. He needed to explain to Ryan, _now_.

 

“Fuck,” His voice was raspy, far raspier than he anticipated.

 

Ryan panted heavily, eyes flickering over Shane’s face, expectantly.

 

“Okay, uh… I’m sorry, I just… I had to, ya know–”

 

Ryan nodded, “Mhm,” his cheeks were still pink, dilated pupils catching the light. 

 

“Uh… I have… _so much_ I want to say, and I wanted to say it the other day when you were at my house, but that didn’t happen,” Shane’s hands were clammy all of a sudden, and his heartbeat was thundering like a stampede of horses’ hooves. “The truth is, I’ve been… obviously, off recently and that’s because–Fuck, this is so cliche–I don’t care about anything but you, Ry.” He nodded with finality, “Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve tried to do, were with the intentions of keeping you safe. You don’t have to say anything, actually, you probably _shouldn't_ say anything right now, but I needed to get that out there. If we’re being realistic, there is a very strong likelihood that I’m not getting out of this, and… if that’s what happens I want you to know this _isn't_ your fault. I-I just, I’ve never cared about anything the way I do for you, and it’s probably stupid, I mean look where it’s gotten us,” Shane tried to smile, but it hurt too much, “I just thought you should know… You mean the world to me.” 

 

Ryan shook his head. He was smiling, but if anyone paid attention to the details of his face like Shane always did, they would be able to tell his bottom lip was quivering. Fuck, he was going to cry!

 

“No, Ry, y-you can’t start crying. I need you to crack that code… I need you to get out of all of this. I need you to forget about me. I can be my own legal counsel!” 

 

“No,” Ryan shook his head, nostrils flaring, “No,”

 

“Yes, Ry.” Shane delicately placed his hands on either side of his friend’s face, “You have to… _Please_.”

 

A single tear, like the first rain droplet on a windshield, trailed down Ryan’s cheek, “No… ‘m not lettin’ you.” His words were muffled and slurred, eyes turning a light pink around the edges.

 

“Ryan–”

 

“‘M gettin’ ya outta h’re.” He gargled again, “I am.” 

 

Shane tried to take a breath, but his throat was too tight and he only managed to let in a choked sobbed, “Dammit, Ryan.” Shane rubbed his eyes, not allowing himself to cry.

 

“Shane,” 

 

The taller man looked at his friend, and without hesitation, Ryan leaned in. It was only chaste, just gentle and mourning, but it was enough. 

  
Shane opened his eyes slowly, taking in the details of Ryan’s face, hoping he would never need to remember them. Hoping he could just look at the man.

 

Ryan ran his thumb beneath Shane’s left eye, and said in a soft mumble, “‘M sorry… I won’t let ya down.”

 

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

 

Ryan nodded, sullenly, “Till death do us part.”


	13. The Gold-Bug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How many days in your life have you struggled? I mean, really struggled, before this saga? Once? Twice? And why? Did a family member die? A pet? Did you fail an exam? Well, I’ve struggled every damn day of my life, and the only way to beat a rigged system is to cheat!”

He waited till he was surely alone, no haunting eyes from the cops or the mafia, just the hum of his apartment, to spit into his hands. He ran his tongue against his teeth to try and shake the taste, eyes falling to his palm. Folded neatly and dampened with saliva was a fragment of paper. A grey hue clouded the corners, a hint at where the moisture was most concentrated. 

 

With shaky hands, Ryan pulled it open, the ink still intact despite the stains. The familiar handwriting seemed to taunt him. The reminder of another life lost by his hand. 

 

He wanted to turn away, to cast the potential clue out, to keep his momentary bounds fastened… but he had to fight for Shane.

 

Shane Alexander Madej… His friend, his business partner… 

He could still feel the kiss on his lips, and no matter how much he tried he couldn’t shake the thought, “was it all for the act?” It was clever, undeniably so, if anyone bothered to watch back the tapes it would just seem like frightened lovers parting. A passionate goodbye. Maybe that’s why Shane didn’t pull away when he kissed him again. Maybe he thought Ryan was trying to solidify their roles.

 

Fuck, he should’ve said something! But he couldn’t, he had literal paper in his mouth! He had evidence from Norris’ office shoved beneath his tongue.

 

Ryan loosened his tie, throwing it onto his couch. He had work to do now, _real_ work. The kind of work he had started his business for, the kind that got _innocent_ people out of prison because Shane _was_ innocent! Ryan had fired the shot! 

 

His hands were clammy as he took a seat at his dining table his laptop, calendars, and book of records all waiting for him. That morning he had called all current clients and given them the contact information for other capable attorneys. Ryan had done it with the intentions to allow him and Shane _plenty_ of time to crack the case that was ‘Satan’s’ identity, now, though, he needed time to not only do that, but to find a way to get his friend out of jail, and, unfortunately, he only knew one person who was an expert at such a thing.

 

Ryan reread the paper strip, in messy, black ink there was a crossed out name, the symbols “);8¶8*069,” and “Andrew Ilnyckyj,” just like before. He scrutinized over the hidden word. It must be the symbols, yes? It had to be Keith’s code. An insurance policy that would’ve allowed him to say, “I never gave out your name.”

 

He opened his laptop, fingers tapping anxiously against the keys, not typing. Where did one even begin with this? 

 

He searched, “);8¶8*069,” but was met only with photos of iPhone cases and an excitable golden retriever–the latter truly baffling him. He tried “codes using );8¶8*069,” still there was nothing. 

 

Ryan ran a hand through his hair, flipping open the notebook beside him and pulling a pen from his pocket. He’d have to do this the long way, it seemed. 

 

The number 8 was repeated twice, which must mean his name had the same letter twice. The most commonly repeated letters tended to be vowels, which limited the letters to a, e, i, o, and u. 

 

-

 

The evening buzz of the station was far more welcoming than the silence of the interrogation room. Detectives were beginning to wrap for the day, there hands filled with work that they still needed to complete. The coffee smell still lingered in the room but was overpowered by the smoky aroma of Tinsley’s desk. 

 

Shane’s hands were still cuffed, this time to nothing but himself. His legs stretched out, awkwardly, into the walkway and he couldn’t help but wonder if making a run for it would be worth the trouble. No one was monitoring him, particularly, and the door was just within eyesight. He shook his head. He deserved this… It was _justice_ after all.

 

“Shane Madej,” 

 

“Yes?” 

 

Annie smiled, holding out a coffee.

 

Shane blinked back, surprised, “Oh, uh, thank you?” 

 

Annie frowned, tilting her head, “Do you not like coffee? I could grab you some tea if you prefer.”

 

“No, no! I just,” He shook his head, smiling, “This isn’t the _usual_ way of things,” He explained, taking the drink from her hand.

 

She shrugged, sitting down at Tinsley’s desk and unlocking the computer. “I know, but… It’s the least I can do,”

 

“That’s the thing, you don’t _have_ to do anything.” Shane was baffled, taking in the stoic completion of this new detective.

 

Annie’s eyes didn’t stray from the screen, “Perhaps I feel bad… Spell your last name for me.”

 

“M-A-D-E-J,” Shane pushed up his glasses, uncomfortably, this whole situation suddenly felt very unsafe. “You don’t have anything to feel bad for.”

 

“Date of birth?” She glanced at him, expectantly.

 

“May 16th, 1986.”

 

Her fingers fluttered over the keyboard, eyes flickering over the arrest report, “Maybe I feel responsible. Maybe I can’t help but feel like a girl playing with two _very_ real toys.”

 

Had someone adjusted the thermostat? Why was it suddenly so cold? Why did his chest feel like a cage crushing in on his heart, on his lungs? “Where did you say you transferred from, Detective Jeong?”

 

“I didn’t,” It was as if she was daring him, daring him to ask the questions that could get him backed into a corner. “New York. You?”

 

“Chicago, born and raised.”

 

“What’s your height? 6ft 3?”

 

“6’4”.” He corrected. The analog clock across the room from Shane seemed to taunt him; a reminder that if he screwed up it would take a lot longer for him to escape this ever-unfolding hell… if he ever could. “Why did you transfer… if you don’t mind my prying.”

 

“I have friends in high place,” She glanced over her shoulder, “and in low ones… I can go wherever I want.”

 

His throat was tight, and despite how much or how little of the coffee he tried to drink it kept getting stuck halfway; a dam keeping it in his throat as if he were drowning. His body was on fire while the room around him was ice, and instead of the contrast feeling pleasant it left him with chills and sweat. “What particularly makes you feel so responsible? For all this, I mean.”

 

She grinned, eyes sparkling with devilish power, “Oh, Mr. Madej, why don’t you just ask me what you want to know? No one would believe you anyway.”

 

She was right. He’d have nothing… nothing but dreaded knowledge and another enemy. “Are you, Annie Jeong, working with or for the LA mob?”

 

She didn’t stop her typing, eyes still latched onto Shane’s. Her gaze was a honeysuckle brown, her lips a soft peach, and the way they contorted when she smiled was both captivating and frightening, “Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Tell me, Mr. Madej, how many days in your life have you struggled? I mean, _really_ struggled, before this saga? Once? Twice? And why? Did a family member die? A pet? Did you fail an exam?” She laughed humorlessly, shaking her head, “I’ve struggled every _damn_ day of my life. I’m a woman of color and not the glorified kind. Not the kind that people praise for their heritage, not the kind that people aspire to look like, not even the kind that plays ‘the best friend’ trope in a movie. I’m an Asian woman. When I first said that I wanted to be a cop, I was in fifth grade and the boys _laughed_ at me.” 

She wasn’t sad, retelling this, she wasn’t even angry per se. She was just speaking a truth with as much ease as someone saying that one plus one is two. “I got top marks in schools, I put forth as much effort in the academy as possible, and _still_ they would’ve preferred to keep me at a desk job. I’m not proud of what I’ve done… turning in those who acted out of ‘necessity,’ but they _were_ guilty… and the only way to beat a rigged system is to cheat.”

  
Shane set down the cup of coffee, “I’m sorry, Annie.”

 

Her eyes darted to his, surprised at the lack of formality, and her fingers ceased for the first time, surrounding them in silence. 

 

“No one, I mean _no one_ , deserves to go through the bullshit America has put you–and countless others–through. And you’re right, I haven’t suffered. I’m a cis white male… I’m the ‘American Ideal,’” He shook his head, studying the smudges and scuffs of the marble floor, “But we can’t undo the past. We can only hope to change the future, and you’re _here_ now. You have power, you have control. You have the ability to right the wrongs that have been done to you. You can turn in the mobsters, and make a name for yourself that _no one_ will laugh at. You can inspire other young Asian-American children.” It was an indirect plea, a beg for sanity in this time when everyone around him had lost it. 

 

Annie smiled, heartfelt, “Oh, Shane… It is a pity I had to turn in those body parts, you seem like a real gem.”

 

It was cold again, his fingers like ice. He should've known… They were being watched this whole time, _he should’ve known_.

 

“Annie–”

 

“Sorry, Madej, duty calls.”

 

\- 

 

Ten tabs open with searches for most common boy names with repeating letters, codes, codes that use numbers and symbols, and so on. Ryan sat, chin in his hand, hair a mess, shirt unbuttoned, eyes glazed over.

 

A magnifying glass, smudged with sweaty fingerprints, and hardly more helpful than any of the browsers up. The only step forward he made–if he could even call it a step, more like a half step–was that the name had 2 E's in it.

 

8 was the letter E. The lines struck through were light enough for him to make that out.

 

His fingers were impatient, typing out, ‘Codes that use 8 for e,’ eyes fixating on the buffer wheel as his internet lagged, tauntingly. He knew it would give him nothing, he had already checked twice. 

 

“Fuck.” He groaned.

 

Fine. He had one last option or he’d be screwed, really, _genuinely_ screwed. 

‘List of codes.’

 

It was extensive, as to be expected but… it was all he had. He could easily eliminate a number of codes. It wasn’t morse, wasn’t the pigpen cipher, wasn't A1Z26, and so on. 

 

He had to give it to them, the mob had really outdone themselves… much to Ryan’s chagrin. 

 

In a film, there are three ways in which this scenario would typically end. The first is that the hero–in this case, the honor is generously being bestowed upon Ryan–would be on the edge of giving up, the edge of defeat when suddenly their troubles would be solved! This is a latin plot point known as “deus ex machina” which translates to “God from the machine,” a reference to the ancient plays that would literally lower actors–playing the part of a god–onto the stage to solve the problems. Often this would unfold with him suddenly finding the code type on a list akin to the one he was blinking, dumbly, at.

The second would be that the hero would do something stupid, irrational, something equally as helpful as it was dangerous. Ryan, however, had learned better. He had seen the way those actions would come back to haunt him, he knew more than anyone, and yet, he was tempted.

The third would be the epiphany. This often happens when there are two characters, one will say something and the other–usually the hero–will remember a key piece to the equation and solve the problem based on that statement. It’s the classic “ah-ha” moment. But Ryan was alone. Alone with the note and his thoughts.

 

He had no witty partner by his side to tell him to stop overthinking, just a spit dried clue. He reread the black ink, turning the paper over in his hands. He knew the back was just a scribble, something Norris must’ve written when rereading the statement. A blue scribble of “gold” followed by a dash and a few question marks. Gibberish… but if it were gibberish then why write it? Norris wouldn’t make markings for no reason. She was calculated. 

 

He pulled the computer closer to him and typed in “gold-” the autofill answers were all vaguely the same. All the phrase “gold-bug.” 

 

So, with only a prayer on his lips, he hit enter.

 

“The Gold-Bug” by Edgar Allan Poe. 

 

Ryan furrowed his brows, pushing his hair out of his eyes, habitually. He opened up a new tab, and typed out, “The Gold-Bug summary.” His eyes flittered across the screen and onto the words that could save his friend’s life, perhaps literally, “the main character pulls his friends into an adventure after _deciphering_ _a secret message_.”

 

Fuck! This could be it. This could be!

 

He wasted no time in pulling up the cipher and grabbing a blank sheet of paper.

8 was E! Yes, okay, okay, he was getting somewhere!

 

He rewrote the familiar “);8¶8*069” adding the newly translated letters beneath them.

 

9 was M, ; was T… The corners of his mouth turned up in an unstoppable smile, pen never slowing.

 

“Thank God!” Ryan sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. He had done it. He had done it! If only Shane were here with him to celebrate.

 

That’s right… He had a job to do. Ryan turned to his phone, calling up the number he once feared and the faceless, nameless voice that came from it. He had done so much to fight for Shane, this was no different.

 

“Bergara? What a pleasant surprise.”

 

“Is it? I’m _so_ glad.” He was bitter, voice low and concentrated, “Tell me, do you enjoy hurting people? Do you get off from control?”

 

A tinny laugh, “Ooh, someone sounds upset. What’s got you down, Ryan?”

 

“Oh, nothing. I just,” Ryan took a deep breath to collect his boiling thoughts, “I thought it was quite clear what our deal was. I do shit for you and you keep me and my partner out of prison.”

  
“He’s not in prison yet, is he? Just a bit sore from cuffs, I’d guess.”

 

“Oh cut the shit! You’ve been playing both of us.”

 

“Well, guilty as charged,” Satan– _no,_ he had a name now–laughed, joyously. He was having too much fun with these subtle law related jabs.

 

Ryan wanted to roar out his name to shout, “YOU DON’T HAVE THE UPPER HAND ANYMORE!” but he couldn’t, he had to think about this strategically.

 

“I have the drive.” He didn’t. It was at Shane’s house, but no one needed to know that.

 

“Do you? That’s nice. I don’t need it. I just figured I’d, uh… Kill two birds with one stone as they say!” The grin spilled from the speaker. 

 

Ryan couldn’t stop himself from slamming his fist down loudly onto the table, a hiss escaping through his grit teeth.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry… You got a problem, Bergara?”

 

“As a matter of fact,” He pushed himself up, allowing the adrenaline pumping through his body to fuel his pacing. “I do have a problem, and I’ve been doin’ an awful lot of thinking, and… You’re gonna help me fix it.”

 

“Why would I do such a thing? You know, if I drop a little recording off at the station your pal will be gone for good. Death row looks real close right now.”

 

Ryan gulped the hot bile down, mustering all the vocal surety he could, “Yes, but you won’t do that because there are two things you won’t risk giving up over everything.”

 

“Care to enlighten me?”

 

“Andrew… and yourself.”

 

The line went silent, only the hum of the room coming over the line.

 

“You see, at first I thought the whole ‘I don’t give out my name’ thing was just to establish a power difference. I thought that it was just to piss off your… _workers_ , but no. It’s not just you, it’s you and Andrew, two cute little peas in a pod!” The mockery heavy, thick and inescapable, “So, if it’s not for manipulation, it must be for insurance. You wanted to keep yourself safe, and then, when Andrew proved his loyalty, you did the same for him.” The blood rushing in his ears was quieting, but his fingers still twitched, “The catch, though, is that you had publicized Andrew’s name too much. He wasn’t the phantom you were, he wasn’t feared the way you were. He’s reachable. That was your first mistake. It gave me a way in. But you were trickier. Your name is used in inner circles, circles that I assume only your closest allies are a part of – if that.”

 

Still, the man was silent, only a soft steady breath.

 

“But you have holes in your spider web, too, and, my dear, that left you vulnerable. So, tell me, _Steven Lim_ , do you want the world to know who you are? I’m sure you have many, many enemies. I bet they’d _love_ to get their hands on you. Oh! Or Andrew, yes, they’ll attack you in all the ways they know will hurt most, just like you taught them to. They’ll watch the light flicker from your eyes and–”

 

“Okay! What–” His voice caught in his throat for a moment, and he paused, 

“What do you want me to do?”

 


	14. A Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bustle of the room was just a distant hum, like an AC unit buzzing to life. It was odd, a strange reminder of the outside world. It should be comforting, yes? But all Ryan could focus on was how he could easily be condemning himself, publicly. How he could be in danger. A sweet paranoia.

Simultaneously, the man was nothing and everything like he had envisioned. He wore a sharp, navy suit–probably worth more than everything in Ryan’s closet–his fingers were adorned with rings of every size, carat, and gemstone, and chains dripped down his chest like liquid gold. Between his fingers, he held a hefty cigar, the plumes of smoke dancing around his face and hair. Yes, his hair, that had been the most surprising… It was a soft silver, undertones of lavender catching the light as he moved. 

Altogether he looked… oddly soft. Despite the harsh decor of his wardrobe, he had round cheeks and a pouty bottom lip that made him seem almost delicate. 

 

He sat alone at a back table in the quiet cafe, just as Ryan had instructed him to. His empty fingers tapped anxiously as he sucked on the cigar. Eyes fixed on the nearest window. He seemed both nervous and unbothered, an emotional state that, in Ryan’s opinion, was too powerful for any human to actually master.

 

“Steven Lim, I presume.” Ryan stood, looking down his nose at the enemy turned “ally.”

 

“Bergara.”

 

“Ah, yes, I’d recognize that voice anywhere.” He grinned, cheekily, sitting down across from the man.

 

Steven straightened out his cuffs, tapping his cigar above the ashtray and watching as fizzling sparks tumbled down. “Mm, I’m flattered.”

 

“As glad as I am to see you,” Ryan gestured vaguely to Steven, “in the flesh, I’m in a bit of hurry, so, let’s get this over with. Yeah?”

 

He hummed, nodding casually as if the question was simply information he was being told and not a genuine inquiry. 

 

“…You here to get shit done? Or did you wanna see how long it takes me to snap in person?” Ryan bristled, watching Steven’s easy figure. He had his left arm draped over the back of his seat, his right hand languidly holding the cigar, offering it another delicate double tap. His head was turned away from Ryan, eyes cast out, once again, to the window. They were just across the street from the police station and their vantage point offered them a clear view of the large double doors. Just as Ryan knew it would.

 

“Lim, don’t fuck with me here,” He warned, voice low.

 

Steven’s gaze flashed to Ryan’s, eyes dark and unforgiving. He leaned forward, pulling his lounging arm in to rest on the table as he drew near to his opponent. A cobra readying to strike. “Here’s the deal, Bergara. I don’t like playing games–”

 

“Do you not? Because I seem to remember lots of playful taunts and giddy giggles when it would most convenience _you_.”

  
It was a catalyst. The match that struck the flame. His subtle frown had twisted, sickeningly, into a full, contemptuous sneer, and he stubbed the cigar out in the ashtray. His decorative fingers intertwined, in faux calmness.

 

“Tell me, _Ryan_ , do you think I could kill you right now? Do you think I could end your life right here and still walk out, past the _police station,_ a free man?”

 

The shorter man swallowed, thickly, jutting out his jaw in a futile attempt to prove in control.

 

“Well? Do you?” Steven waited for an answer, coyly, but none came, “I think so–actually, no. No, I don’t think so. I _know_ so. I know so because I get whatever the fuck I want in this rotten town. Whether that’s money, power, information, or death.”

 

Ryan’s hold was slipping, the upper hand that was once well in his grasp was sliding through his fingers. He knew that, Steven knew that, but he had to play it like that wasn’t the case. He had to play it like Steven had misread his hand, “But you wouldn’t do that because you want to make a deal.” His voice dripped with faux confidence, the calculations all a blur in his head. Was it better to keep up this tough and dominant act, or should he let Steven lead?

 

He chuckled, shifting his hair off his forehead, “Mm, I want to make a deal,” he softly echoed with an approving nod, “Yes, as do you. Or else I wouldn’t be here.”

 

He wasn’t wrong. Ryan bit on the edge of his thumb, concentrating on every detail of his counterpart. Did he have a tell? Was there a way for him to win without sacrificing too much?

 

“So, what do you want?” Steven asked, voice level, casual.

 

“Oh, no! No, no, no, _no._ ” It was meant to be a taunt, a joyous song, but, instead, it came out strained and fearful. “That’s not how we’re playing this. What do _you_ want? I’ve put up with enough of your shit to know not to trust,” he gestured nonsensically at the mobster, “ _That_.”

 

There was a flicker, subtle, but there. A spark of surprise, of miscalculated shock in the mob boss’ big ochre eyes. 

 

“I see.” Steven adjusted his watch, glancing at the sleek face. He had _not_ expected Ryan to fight him on this, not while things were the way they were.

 

“Well?”

 

He sighed, leaning back in the small wooden seat, his white button-up straining open as he glanced over at the station. “There’s someone in power that I’d like… dealt with.”

 

“Dealt… with?” It was tentative, a whisper on his lips.

 

“Mmm,” He nodded, his pouty lips twisting into a Cheshire grin, “You’re quite good at that, so I’ve heard.”

 

Ryan bit back a bitter quip, he was back again, dancing with the devil. His past burns hadn’t yet healed but his options were few and far between.

 

“Bergara… Don’t fret, I’ll make it worth your while.”

 

“And if I say no?” 

 

Steven ran a finger along the rim of the ashtray, “Let’s just say… I know a number of people who weren’t particularly _fond_ of Madej’s interrogation tactics. Imagine the swell of people who’d want him condemned to death.” The words were so harsh as they fell from the smiling lips, and Ryan turned his head away to organize his thoughts. “And it’s not like I can hold them back if I’m imprisoned.” 

 

The bustle of the room was just a distant hum, like an AC unit buzzing to life. It was odd, a strange reminder of the outside world. It should be comforting, yes? But all Ryan could focus on was how he could easily be condemning himself, publicly. How he could be in danger. A sweet paranoia. He bit his lip, shaking his head with what he hoped sounded like an easy laugh. “Yeah, okay… Who’s the target?”

 

* * *

 

It was grey. The walls. The sheets. The concrete floor. The metal toilet. It was grey. And cold. 

Shane sat, awkwardly, a leg perched against his chest, the other dangling over the rickety cot. He was alone, deemed a threat to others, in this monochrome box.

 

He didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how Ryan was doing with that stupid code. He didn’t know if any evidence had been discovered. Fuck, what if Ryan ended up getting tied to him and the evidence? What if he already had been? 

 

His fingers twitched, anxiously, he wanted to see his friend. He wanted to talk to Ryan. He wanted to explain. He wanted to explain that the kiss was the only way he could give him the paper discreetly… but that didn't mean he hadn’t _wanted_ to kiss him. He did want to kiss him. He still wanted to! He wanted to kiss him again when their worlds weren’t falling apart.

 

Shane wanted to explain that he’d had a big fat gay crush on Ryan since they were in college. Since Ryan gave him that stupid look. That stupid, wistful ‘I believe in the good of humanity’ look. He hadn’t seen it in a while. It was almost like the whole expression was a dream, a figment of Shane’s imagination, until he apologized, until he said this whole thing was his fault. 

 

Ryan had shaken his head, lips parted and eyes twinkling, and there it was. It was deeper, though, richer and full of guilt. It was alive and with a passion that made Shane’s heart stop beating. 

 

Fuck. He wanted to see Ryan. 

 

It was like a dripping wound, the more he ignored it, the more it ached.

 

Shane ran a hand through his hair, eyes tracing the cracks in the floor.

 

“Mr. Madej,” It was Holly, her eyes blank and dull “Your lawyer is here to speak with you.”

 

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in, the weight on his shoulders lifting just a bit. He pushed himself to his feet, shaking his stiff limbs. 

 

Holly didn’t bother with asking for his wrists, just took hold and cuffed them. They both knew that this was different. They had never been terribly close, Ryan and Shane preferred to stay distant from the cops, but they were all work acquaintances. Shane would even go so far as to say the four of them were work friends after they finished a case. So, here, they didn’t bother with niceties, not when their eyes showed their apologies and their touches were laced with guilt.

 

Shane let Holly guide him, a hand pressed firmly to the center of his back as she directed him into the interrogation room. 

 

“You have 20 minutes.” 

 

Shane stumbled into the room, watching over his shoulder for the door to shut, “Ryan, have you–” 

 

A man, only a few inches taller than Ryan, stood with his back to Shane. He was dressed in a sleek navy suit, a briefcase in his hand. His hair, though, is what really caught his eye. It was iridescent, an otherworldly silver. 

 

“You-You are not Ryan.”

 

“‘Fraid not. No.” He tossed the case onto the metal table, and it let out a strangely hollow sound. He gestured for Shane to sit as he took swaggering strides towards the center of the room. 

 

“So, who, pray tell, are you?”

 

The man snickered to himself, straightening out his suit cuff, “Mr. Madej, my name is Steven Lim. I’m here to… _help_ you.”

 

Shane sunk into the seat. Who the hell was this well dressed, ‘lawyer.’ His rings glittered in the sterilizing light, his cologne filling the room like poison.

 

“Wait… You,” Shane squinted skeptically, “You’re… Satan?”

 

Lim barked a laughed, “Wow. What a generous title.” He looked absolutely _delighted_ , elated by the new moniker. “Is that what you two have been calling me? I’m flattered,” He perched on the edge of the table, looking down upon the taller man at this angle. “Honestly.”

 

“I don’t… understand.” Ryan was supposed to be ending all of this. He was supposed to… unless… “Ryan didn’t…”

 

He smiled, eyes blazing with a terrifying excitement. Those hungry eyes said it all.

 

Shane ran a hand nervously over his throat, trying to pull away the ropes that were choking him, but found nothing, just a pressing reality.

 

“Oh, but he did!” He spoke with a flourish of his hand, “So, we’re getting you out of this. All of it.” Lim pushed himself to his feet, sliding the briefcase in front of him. He flicked the clasps open with a dramatic ‘ _click_.’

 

Shane couldn’t see into the case from this angle, only watching as the strangely excitable man peered at the contents. He wasn’t what Shane had imagined at all. Shane had expected monotony, like Andrew, or heavy façades, like Norris, or strangely dark, paternal figures, like De Niro in ‘The Godfather.’ Lim was a whole other ball game, flashy and sophisticated, childish and cold, thoughtful and impulsive, a walking contradiction.

 

“Okay… What’s the plan?”

 

“We wait.”

 

Shane tilted his head, cocking a confused brow, “Uh, what for? Exactly?” 

 

He could’ve jumped, actually, he probably _had_ jumped, but the adrenaline that shook his body and thundered through his ears made the whole thing so jumbled and confusing he wasn’t sure what he’d done. All he knew was that Lim had given him an almost braggadocios wink, picked up a handgun from the briefcase, and snapped his fingers as a loud series of gunshots and screams echoed from the police station.

 

“For that.”

 

Fuck. It was a Smith and Wesson .500, that gun could kill anyone with a single shot. They were infamous.

 

“What? What the fuck! What _the_ fuck?!” His eyes were frantic, his legs frozen in place despite his urge to stand up and yell.

 

“Let’s move, Madej, we don't have time for explanations. Not while cameras are around.” Lim gestured his gun holding arm wildly, trying to usher Shane out the door.

 

He swallowed thickly, cheeks flushed with worry, “What the fuck?! Ryan did _not_ plan this!” He gestured towards the gun, the briefcase.

 

“Okay! So I improvised, who gives a shit! Get your ass up and let’s move, or you’ll be stuck in this hellhole!” Shane was wrong. Lim wasn’t just impulsive he was _erratic,_ which was so much worse. Jesus fuck!

 

“Okay, okay.” Shane stumbled to his feet, allowing Lim to grab him by the shoulder.

 

“We’re making this look like a hostage situation, just in case we get stopped, but it shouldn’t be hard to get out. Not right now at least.” He shoved the gun between Shane’s shoulder blades, “Start walkin, Madej.”

 

* * *

 

There’s something odd about thinking of someone you feel indifference towards. Especially when you’re thinking of good moments together… paired with how you’re going to kill them. 

 

Out of all the strange varieties of thought Ryan had throughout his life, he was pretty sure this scenario won ‘strangest.’ Eh, perhaps that was the wrong title. Maybe ‘craziest’ or ‘psychopathic’ would be better terms. 

 

It didn’t quite matter now, though, he had a job to do and a life to escape. 

 

Ryan fixed his attention on the gun in his hand, same as Steven’s own personal one, deadly as hell. He only had one shot at this, after all.

 

He shrugged his coat on tighter, tucking the weapon into his pocket, hands gloved. He clambered up the stairs, awkwardly, his side still hissing.

 

The station was warm in contrast to the icy autumn air. The contrast welcoming. He could see Holly and Norris talking. The brunette stood, gesturing enthusiastically, as she often did when recounting an anecdote. She shook her head, a soft smile gracing her lips. It was during these intense cases, during ones that would leave the pair practically unhinged, that she’d bust out her best stories to distract her partner. It was like a momentary vacation before everything _really_ intensified.

 

Norris seemed to glow in her presence, eyes wide, and face soft. Wistful. Francesca Norris had never looked ‘wistful’ before in the history of Ryan knowing her. She seemed so enthralled in every movement her partner made, a moonstruck grin overtaking her mauve mouth.

 

Annie was carrying a coffee over to Tinsley, the pair engrossed in case details. They wrote rapidly, nodding as the other made an interesting point. Annie occasionally raised a hand, pen captured between her fingers, eyes alight, as she spoke. Tinsley, in return, would snap his fingers and take a drag from his cigarette.

 

It was familiar, a strange coziness in the towering marble room. 

 

Ryan took a deep breath, steadying himself. 

 

“Excuse me,” A figure muttered, his blue suit brushing by. 

 

Ryan didn't offer him a second glance, “Sorry,” he already knew who it was. 

 

“Detective Horsley! My name is Steven Lim, I’m here to speak with my client Shane Madej.”

 

Holly blinked, slowly, her tongue caught between her teeth like a confused cat. “Oh, I wasn’t aware he had sought out new council. Right this way!”

 

Ryan spectated from the edges of the room, his steps following the perimeter of the building. He needed to find a good angle, an ideal target point. 

 

Holly and Steven exited the room, swiftly, and Norris tracked their path with her eyes. She frowned, nibbling on her painted lip. She pushed her glasses up, trying to ignore her suspicions.

 

He would have twenty seconds, tops, to get this right. Four steps, twenty seconds. He could not fuck this up. He glanced back at the door Holly had taken Steven into. The room that would lead to Shane. 

 

Okay. He could do this.

 

Step one. He glided, casually, past the switch that controlled the overhead lights and flicked it down. 

 

There was a murmur of annoyance and surprise, but the murmur quickly morphed into screams as Ryan initiated step two. He retrieved his weapon, heavy in his hand, and shot twice into the darkness.

 

Step three, ditch the gun. He threw it into a nearby potted plant. It didn’t matter if it was found, he just couldn’t have it on him. His gloves should keep him out of suspicion, anyway.

 

This left step four, escape the shooter’s vantage point. So, he ran, full on _sprinted_ across the bullpen, and ducked behind the nearest desk. He had to blend in. He had to play the part of a victim, too.

 

Often times this would be the moment where slow, dramatic, ballad-like music would play in a film. A slow-motion montage would feature the protagonist blinking, anxiously, the lights would illuminate the room in a hazy flash of orange, and the victim would bleed out. 

 

This is not, however, how real life plays out.

 

Therefore, that was not the way it played out when the lights did flicker on.

That was not the way it played out as Holly held her gun out, standing, wide-eyed, in the corridor. 

That was not the way it played out as the brunette stepped forward, tentative and speechless, towards her lover. 

That was not the way it played out as the blood pooled around Norris. 

That was not the way it played out as the once enigmatic, terrifying, calculated, cruel, and _damn good_ detective lay lifeless in the center of the police station lobby. 

 

There was no music as a silent tear slipped down Holly’s cheek. There was no music as Ryan hesitantly stood, gripping his injured side. There was no music as officers slowly stepped forward, trying to make sense of the scene that had just unfolded. There was no music as civilians screamed, and ran away from the center of the room. There was no music. Just pain. And fear. 

 

“What the fuck just happened?” Tinsley stood at the center of the staircase, looking down at the scene. 

The hubbub of pedestrians yelping making for an uneasy ambiance.

 

Annie murmured a breathless, “Holy shit.” Turning to a pair of nearby lieutenants and snapping, “Call for medics!”

 

“Holly,” Tinsley descended the stairs in a hurry, neglecting the handrail, “…Hols?”

 

“She… She’s…” Holly swallowed thickly, not taking her eyes off the crumpled figure, “Someone… They…” But the words didn’t come. Neither did more tears, despite what Ryan thought. Her face may have been splotchy, nose red, eyes glassy and doll-like but no tears came. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, clearing her voice, “We’re going to need to take everyone’s statements. Get everyone to sit. Annie check the perimeter for any suspects. I’ll check the other rooms.”

 

“Holly, are you sure–”

 

“I’m fine!” She waved her hand dismissively at Annie, “I just… It’s what she would’ve wanted me to do.”

 

No one protested, instead, the worried bustle continued as everyone was ushered to the seats beside the stairwell. 

 

Ryan surveyed the room, looking for a sign. For a moment, just in his periphery, he caught a pair of dark figures sliding past the departing crowd, but as he snapped back for a double-take, he found no one in sight.

 

Tinsley, along with a few other handy cops, began speaking to the few civilians nearest to them. Tinsley’s voice was too soft to reach Ryan’s prying ears. He nodded, thoughtfully, taking note of the events the woman was retelling.

 

The crowd was tense, tense and eerily quiet. Norris was the head detective, which would’ve put her in charge of this situation since Chief Houston was out… Due to the recent events though, the authority could debatably fall upon Horsley or Tinsley.

 

That must’ve been the play. If Tinsley rose to head detective, it would place Annie closer to command, as his partner.

 

Speak of the devil, er, devil’s informant, Annie re-entered the station. Her face was pale from the chill, “All clear around the perimeter!” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and took a seat beside her partner.

 

“Thank you for your time, you’re free to go, Ma’am.” Tinsley flipped to a new page in his notebook, “Ryan, you’re up next.”

 

Ryan forced a respectfully apologetic smile, his hands stuffed into his pocket, pulling the coat tightly to his chest. His injury was hot, he had moved too much in the past two days, and he was paying the price. He winced as he took a seat, “Hey, man.”

 

“What brought you to the station today, Ryan?”

 

“I wanted to check up on Shane.” 

 

“I see… Where were you located when the lights went out?”

 

“I was standing by Holly’s desk.” Ryan pointed to the desk he had hidden behind.

 

“Is that so?” Tinsley raised a brow, biting on the end of his pen, skeptically.

 

“It is.”

 

“Convenient.”

 

“I’m sorry?” Ryan pulled his coat tighter, “What’s convenient?”

 

“Holly’s desk is just within the security camera’s blind spot… But you wouldn’t know that, would you?”

 

Oh, yes. Yes, he would. You learn things like that when you check blueprints and study trajectory. “No, of course not, and not to sound insensitive, but… You should probably fix that.”

 

Tinsley shrugged, making note of Ryan’s ‘story.’

 

“Tinsley,” Ryan waited for the man to look up, “Have I done something wrong?”

 

“I don’t know, Ryan, that’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Tinsley leaned forward, flipping his notepad shut. “I don’t know anyone or anything Shane would go to the ends of the Earth to protect. Not Bennett, not his reputation, not the mob, not his job. No one… But you.” Tinsley’s grasp on the pen tightened, his knuckles whitening, “So, you’ll have to forgive me if I find it odd that he suddenly gets pinned for murder, and his priority is to wait for _you_ to show up, his ‘lawyer,’ when the whole fucking world knows he could represent himself.”

 

Ryan pursed his lips, debating how to address this. “Tinsley,” He took a calming breath, “Shane is innocent, he didn’t kill Habersberger. He waited for me because he wanted me to support him. He’s scared, he’s being pinned for a crime he didn’t commit! And I’m sorry if fate has written an enticing mystery for you, a mystery that would boost your reputation, a mystery that seems too good to be true, but sometimes that’s just it… It’s not true.” Ryan placed a soothing hand on the detective’s knee, “But right now you should focus on the woman who’s murderer is on the loose.”

 

“Noted,” He hissed.

 

“So, am I free to go?” Ryan pushed himself up, turning towards the door. His coat sliding open just a bit.

 

“Ye–” Tinsley eyed the way the shorter man held himself, a bit hunched over. “Just one last question. If you don’t mind.”

 

Ryan sat down, raising his hands, palms out, as a show of innocent acceptance.

 

“Where were you last Friday from 8 P.M. till 10?”

 

“Uh,” He stiffened, straightened out the coat so it covered his chest. “I was home… alone…”

 

“Interesting.” Tinsley’s gaze didn't waver, he didn’t bother making any note. Just watching, waiting for Ryan to reveal himself. “…Okay, you’re free to go.”

 

“Good luck with the investigation, Detective.” Ryan wasted no time in rising to his feet. He slipped a hand into his coat, pressing it against his side to assess the damage. 

Shit. It was wet. He was bleeding out again. 

 

He was just about to move when Tinsley caught the movement, eyeing Ryan’s hand, still tucked into his coat. “Ryan?”

 

He took a step back, “Yes?”

 

“Please open your coat… slowly.” Tinsley was rising out of his own seat, his movements akin to that of a man facing off a rabid dog. Ryan, was an unpredictable threat, in this moment, to him. Tinsley’s right hand, slowly, reaching for his gun.

 

Fuck. Ryan had no other choice. He pulled his jacket open, his white shirt drenched in sweat… and blood.

 

“Tinsley…” Ryan was back to bearing his defensive palms, “I can explain.”

 

Tinsley’s scrutinizing gaze flickered between the bloody gash, the stains on Ryan’s hands, and the man in question’s big, nervous eyes. “Please do, Ryan.”

 

“I was injured last week, ducking behind the desk, amid all the commotion, tore the wound.” Ryan nodded, reassuringly, “I swear.”

 

“How’d you get injured, Ry?” 

 

The room seemed deathly quiet now. Despite the murmurs and conversation fluttering about, the room’s air seemed stale, the movements seemed brittle, every breath Ryan took was a step on thin ice. 

 

“I–”

 

“You’re 5ft 9, aren’t ya?”

 

“… 5’ 10, actually.”

 

“It’s striking, really,” He stepped closer, just a bit, standing taller.

 

“What?”

 

“Oh, well, it’s just… You match the description of someone I’m looking for _quite_ well… 5 ft _10_ ,” He rolled his eyes, mockingly, “Brown eyes, well-built, with an injury on their left side…”

 

Ryan took another step back, he needed to think of something, _now_ , “Tinsley–” 

 

“He’s gone!” Holly stormed into the room.

 

All eyes flew to her. Annie, Tinsley, even Ryan, himself, turned to her.

 

“Madej is gone!”

 

It was all a blur. A hazy flurry of movement. A hurricane of colors, and shouts, and gasps, and emotions. Tinsley had reached for Ryan, had tried to grab him with the words “you have the right” on his tongue, but an impulse took over. A reminder of everything that was on the line seized Ryan, and so, he punched the detective clean across the face. 

 

He ignored the yelps from civilians. He ignored the shouts from Holly, her voice broken. He just ran, the blood sticking his shirt to his chest as he threw the door open. His heavy steps, the only sound as he slid toward the car.

 

“Bergara, freeze!” Holly was still trying, the pleads more to God than to her target. “Dammit, Ryan!” The tears could be made out in the thickness of her voice.

 

He didn’t stop, he couldn’t. He held his lower lip, sharply, between his teeth as he threw the passenger seat to his car open. 

 

Holly fired two shots, just missing Ryan’s feet. “Ryan!” She lowered her gun, watching as he turned back to her, “Please?” 

 

Ryan shook his head, “I’m so sorry, Holly.” he pulled the door shut behind him, watching her in the distance. 

 

It wasn’t her tears that broke him. It wasn’t the disappointment that lingered on her face. It was way she closed her eyes, holstered her gun, and turned away. 

 

She wasn’t trying to get him. Not anymore. He had won.

 

“You did well, Bergara.” Steven sounded proud, sickly so. He smiled, glancing at Ryan from the corner of his eyes.

 

“Shane’s safe?” Ryan’s whole body seemed to vibrate with the emotions that overwhelmed his head. A pendulum of guilt and relief.

 

“Mhm, he’s waiting for you with the rental car at the first rest stop. You’ll see him soon.”

 

He expected to be engulfed in a sudden coziness, a warmth, a wonderful sanctity in this knowledge, yet none came. His fingers were cold, side hot and burning, his mind numb. 

 

He had fought so hard to get here, to safety… The reality of it though… It was nothing that he had hoped for. Nothing that he had longed for. 

Not anymore.


	15. Partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end isn't the end until you're dead.

The tires crunching against the gravel road was rhythmic, but not the kind of rhythmic that soothed. No. It was the kind of rhythmic that became irritating over time, like that one person in a crowd who claps out of sync, like steady snores that are just too loud. 

 

It was the sort of jarring, rhythmic pattern that reminded Shane of the silence that surrounded them. 

 

The transfer had been fluid and silent. He sat in the rental car, fingers tapping across the steering wheel, anxiously, until a dark vehicle pulled up. Ryan had slid into the passenger’s seat, not making a sound, and so they remained. Neither of them saying a word as the pine trees and road signs blurred into the distance.

 

Shane had opened his mouth more than once, but each time his eyes strayed to his counterpart, the man was fixed away. 

 

Ryan still had his coat pulled around him, tightly, still had his right hand buried out of sight, beneath the coat, still had his head turned away, so he could look out the window, still had his shoulders tensed like the smallest touch would make him jump, or fight, or scream. 

 

The gentle pattering of rain began, a sprinkle of little pools turning into streams trailed down the windshield. The soft sun peered over the treetops, the droplets sparkling in the light. The ambiance equal parts calming and eerie.

 

Shane took a deep breath, resting his wrists against the steering wheel as the car kept forward. “So…” The hardest part was done now. The first word. Yet, Shane suddenly felt cotton in his throat as he tried to gather his thoughts. “Norris is…”

 

“Yes.” The voice was meek and ashamed. A whisper.

 

“And you–”

 

“ _Yes_.” This time, less of a whisper, more of a hiss. More of a warning to stop.

 

Shane pressed on, “Because Lim…” Because Lim made you?

 

“You know I had to.”

 

Shane offered another sideways glance at Ryan, he was still turned away, voice muffled, “For me?”

 

He nodded, hanging his head forward, toward the main road, the closest he had gotten the entire time to facing Shane, “For you.”

 

The taller man tried to focus ahead, on the winding twists and turns before them, on the path that was clouded with rain, but he couldn’t. All he wanted was to take Ryan’s hand and remind him that they were safe now. That they had made it. Honestly, Shane wasn't even sure he would get to be here again. Beside Ryan. He felt guiltily happy–obviously, this whole situation wasn’t good, but he had a second chance now. They had a second chance now. Why couldn't Ryan see that?

 

And, as if he could read Shane’s mind, Ryan muttered, pitifully, “They won.”

 

“Ry, they didn’t wi–”

 

“THEY FUCKIN’ WON!” He howled, slamming an open palm down atop the dashboard. He turned, fully, towards Shane, skin ghostly white, eyes red and puffy. His bottom lip was swollen, an obvious sign he’d been chewing on it, he used to do it whenever he lied to his teachers or cheated on exams back in college. “They won because we’ve got blood on our hands…An endless stream.” He shook his head, looking back at the window, “How’re we supposed to live with ourselves now?”

 

He posed the question like it was prominent to both of them, but they knew it wasn’t. It was Ryan’s conscience, the one that had been so tortured and hidden, returning with a prominence that ensured self-loathing and inescapable guilt. 

 

Shane held out his right hand, laying it between their seats, “Give me your hand.”

 

The shorter man frowned, looking towards Shane, “Huh?”

 

“Give me your hand, man.”

 

Ryan hesitantly moved his left arm, hovering over his friend’s. Shane rolled his eyes and snatched the floating hand from the air. His grip was tight but comforting, and he lazily traced circles over the back of Ryan’s hand.

 

“You said it first.”

 

Ryan tilted his head like a confused puppy, “Said what first?”

 

“‘Till death do us part,’ you said that first.” Shane shrugged, a silent remark: ‘keep your word.’

 

Ryan spit, bitterly, “Well, there’s been death now.” Condescension in his voice and a self-deprecating scoff on his tongue.

 

“And yet we’re still here. Together.” Shane squeezed the younger man’s hand as if to prove that both of them were real.

 

Ryan softened, his whole body drooping as if he had been strung up for hours. His eyes were big and filled with a familiar, unreadable emotion. 

 

“Together?” He echoed.

 

Shane shot Ryan a small glance but the utter vulnerability of his whole demeanor struck Shane like a slap in the face. “Ry?”

 

The walls crumbled down, the tears heavy and loud. The doe brown eyes were muddy pools, broken faucets with unstoppable leaks. The sobs wracked Ryan’s whole body, and he clung to Shane’s hand so tightly his fingertips became white and their hands shook.

 

Shane pulled hard on the steering wheel, directing their car into the breakdown lane. “Ryan, Ryan, shhh. It’s okay. Talk to me, please.” He directed himself fully to the shorter man, watching as a pink wash fell over Ryan’s face. 

 

He shook his head, “I-I’m sor-sorry.” He couldn’t stop shaking, his breathing becoming harsher and less controlled. He was just short of fully hyperventilating when it clicked.

 

Ryan had tried to be so strong for Shane, through _everything,_ something Shane never used to need. And now, now after doing _so much_ for his friend, now that they were ‘safe,’ his body was processing all the torment that he had repressed. 

 

“Ryan, listen to me. You’re safe, I’m safe, and I’m not leaving you. We’re getting through this and I won’t let _anything_ happen to either of us. Ever. You need to take deep breaths. Listen to me, Ry.” Shane kept hold of Ryan’s hand, using his other to brush tears away, soothingly. “Shh. You’re safe. You’re safe. Breathe.”

 

Ryan inhaled, slowly, it was a shallow breath, a bit wheezy, but it was a start. 

 

“That’s it, Ry. You’re okay. I’m never gonna let anything happen to you.”

 

He nodded, trying to steady himself, “I-I’m… I’m okay… Yeah. I’m okay.” 

 

They stayed that way for the next couple of minutes. Ryan looked down at their hands, Shane’s thumb tracing his cheek, eyes studying the curves of his friend’s face. Their breathing was still a bit thunderous, but they were finding a calm with one another and the light _pit-pat_ of rain.

 

“About… Yesterday…” Shane mumbled, “I–”

 

“You had to get the paper to me,” Ryan leaned away, trying to look Shane in the eyes. “I get it. It was clever.”

 

The taller man hummed thoughtfully, trying to read Ryan, “…Right.”

 

“Right.” He tried to pull away, eyes darting to his feet.

 

“Actually,” Shane didn’t release Ryan, despite the younger man trying to tug his hand out of their link, “That’s not it, what I wanted to talk about, I mean. See… I thought that would work, I thought it was clever sure… But…” Shane looked away, “Uh, well, to be perfectly candid… I’ve had a big, fat, gay crush on you since we were in college. Ha, yeah, so, uh.” He let go, finally, too worried his hands might shake, “Yes, it was to get you the evidence, but then you kissed me again, and, well, I thought maybe I was being stupid, but… that _had_ to mean something. Right?” His voice was shaky and fast, the nervous kind of fast that made him stumble. The kind of fast that he used to tease Ryan for. “So, I guess what I’m saying is… I like you, Ryan, and I can never get out of my own head, so please stop me if I’m wrong, but I think you like me too.”

 

The _pit-pat_ was a little softer now, or perhaps Shane’s heart was just beating louder now, his eyes flickered between his shaky hands and Ryan’s gaze.

 

“You’re _such_ a lawyer, Jesus.”

 

“What?” His voice was soft, brows pulled together, confused and nervous.

 

“‘To be perfectly candid?’” The corners of Ryan’s lips twisted upwards in a teasing smirk, “Well, thank you for your _candor_ , but I find the defendant guilty of being a fucking nerd!” He shook his head, laughing half-heartedly. Eyes flickering down to his own hands, fingers toying with the lapel of his coat.

 

Shane couldn’t breathe, the hilarity of the moment dissipating and revealing the tension in the air. “Ryan?” He looked down on the man, admiring the way his dark onyx hair caught the light.

 

Ryan sniffled, nodding, his eyes were glassy, again, but the smile hadn’t left his lips. “To be perfectly candid… I like you, too, Asshole.”

 

Shane smiled, letting out a shaky laugh, the air filling his lungs in abundance. “Fuck… Don’t-Don’t leave me hangin’ like that, man!”

 

Ryan laughed, taking Shane’s hand and squeezing it comfortingly.

 

The taller man’s gaze was heavy, his head ducking down, eyeline meeting Ryan’s. Their noses brushed, clumsily, and Ryan let out a nervous laugh. 

 

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Ry.” 

 

Ryan’s eyes traced the man’s complexion, taking in the pink flush.

 

“You’re safe with me.”

 

Ryan’s fingers traced the line of buttons up Shane’s chest, touch light, enticing. “Till death do we part.”

 

Shane could feel the warmth of the smaller man’s breath on his skin, the movement of his lips ghosting his own. “And beyond.” 

 

Their mouths came together gently as if it was for the first time as if they were just getting to know one another… and in a way, they were. It was a mutual moment of understanding, a moment to learn what made the other tick. A dance that was clumsy and tentative. It wasn’t until Ryan’s fingers clawed into Shane’s collar, forcing the taller man closer, that the kiss grew more heated. Their breaths, slow, movements sloppy and hungry, apologies for the time they wasted on their tongues. 

 

Shane ran his fingers through Ryan’s hair, winding them around the longer tuffs and pulling the shorter man’s head back, exposing his neck. He planted gentle, taunting kisses down from his jaw to the base of his collar bones. He nipped at the skin, smirking as small red marks trailed down in his wake. 

 

Ryan’s free hand gripped Shane’s thigh, firmly, a vain attempt to stable himself as his breath grew more ragged. “Fu- _Shane_ … We can’t-We– _Shit_ –We gotta keep going.” His voice was husky, and despite his words, his hand trailed closer to his partner’s belt.

 

“Mmm,” He chuckled, planting another firm, hot kiss against Ryan’s lips, “If you insist.” Shane ran a hand lazily through his hair, shifting the car back into drive. He held the wheel steadily with his left hand, his right staying draped over Ryan’s thigh.

 

And, despite the way Shane had to shift in his seat, despite the way Ryan had to focus on the window to avoid facing the new problem that was making itself _quite_ well known between his thighs, it was nice like this. It was nice to allow their hearts to beat fast for a reason that wasn’t fear, to think of one another with something other than worry on their minds, and to have the feeling of something other than regret on their lips. 

 

* * *

 

The lobby was near silent, the clicking of the grandfather clock rang out from the hallway. The room was doused in a warm yellow light, the evening sky filtering through the curtains. Crickets chirped from beneath the open windows, an ambiance that fell just short of peaceful. Only a handful of equally sketchy travelers sat interspersed throughout the room. Most of them drunk.

 

Ryan’s gaze followed the winding design of the carpets up the garish wallpaper to the gaudy chandeliers. He sneered in distaste, turning back to the thick oak desk. The gold bell was dull, clearly old and underused. 

 

“Mr. Goldsworth, Mr. McClintlock,” The concierge returned, a cheap smile on her face, “Please follow me to your room.”

Shane glanced back to Ryan, a reassuring smile plastered to his face. 

Ryan nodded, accepting their fate, his hand catching Shane’s. The smaller man smiled as his partner traced gentle shapes over his wrist, a small reminder that he wasn’t leaving. Yes… His partner. His partner in school, in business, in crime, and now in life. 

 

This wasn’t perfect, far from it actually, they didn’t have anything but their lies and quit wit to rely on… Their lies, quick wit, and each other. _They had each other_. And even though everything seemed too distant, so unbelievably temporary, as if the facade they clung to would crumble at any second, neither of them were going anywhere. 

 

Ryan squeezed Shane’s hand.

Yes, they were walking towards what could easily be their demise, but as long as they could stay like this, they’d be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowee, guys. This is my first multi-chapter fic, so if you're reading this, thank you for stickin' around for the ride. It's had its ups and downs, but I'm so glad to be putting this bad boy to rest. 
> 
> Love you all! Keep readin'!
> 
> Also, you can find me on tumblr @buzzzfeeedunsolved if you want to keep up with my memes, one-shots, and future fics!


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